Carrion and the Cat, or, Torture by Animal
by Amaruk Wolfheart of the Wraith
Summary: The war between Day and Night is finally over. However, a new, just as serious, problem has arisen. What is to be done with Christopher Carrion? It's Candy who comes up with the answer: rehabilitation.
1. Prologue

Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

**Spoilers:** Abarat, Abarat: Days of Magic, Nights of War

**Warnings and Pairings:** As I haven't read the entire quartet (coz the last ones aren't published yet, obviously), I can't promise accuracy on any given situation, character, or place. So, in a few years, when the books during and following the war are out, don't come back and start yelling at me. Please. Pairings: you won't find any romance here unless you want to see it. Friendship for the win, though!

**Notes:** Mostly, this is a fic for my own amusement when I laughed at the idea of Carrion having a pet. This followed. So don't expect a novel of epic proportions in this – I'm just having fun. (grin) **000 ooo As of August 8, 2008, while writing Chapter Nine, I went through and edited/revamped everything. Some minor details have added, deleted, or changed**.** ooo 000** Enjoy!

**-Rutile's Spectacularly Amazing Disclaimer- **The author of this fic owns nothing. Let us all point and laugh. Ha. Ha ha. Ha. The End.

* * *

Prologue

Christopher Carrion was fuming.

This was undoubtedly the must humiliating, undignified punishment imaginable. Adding insult to injury, he just _knew_ that the group of imbeciles who had decided to put him through this torment was probably standing around somewhere, laughing hysterically at him, and taking a sadistic pleasure in his discomfort. The thought of pretty boy Finnegan having a good laugh at the expense of the Lord of Midnight was alone enough to make him seethe with rage.

Carrion growled dire threats under his breath, imagining wonderfully violent and painful ways to repay them. Or, more specifically, wonderfully violent and painful ways to repay _her_.

It all came back to that infernal girl from the Hereafter – Candy Quackenbush. He'd begun having problems as soon as she'd entered the Abarat, and every one of those problems could be traced back to her, including this latest situation.

He was imprisoned. They called it "rehabilitation" and he had several moderately comfortable rooms, but it was a prison nonetheless. And the Prince of Darkness was _not_ accustomed to being confined. Especially not with a hideous, conniving creature sitting on his foot. An endearing mew drew the man's attention. Adoring liquid amber eyes met his furious glare. There came a second mew.

"Hungry _again_?" he snarled at the thing.

Christopher Carrion was fuming.


	2. Ch1: In Which an Ominous Bundle Appears

Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

**Spoilers:** Books 1 and 2

**Warnings and Pairings:** the same as before

**Notes:** First of all, I have no clue as to what kind of furniture and stuff would be appropriate in the Abarat in this situation. I'm doing my best, but I fear it's still sadly lacking. (shrugs) Ah well. Hopefully I can improve, hm? ;) A thousand thanks to you reviewers! It's great to know that there are people actually bothering to read this.

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Chapter One: In Which an Ominous Bundle Appears

The war was finally over. Day had defeated Night, and there were still celebrations occurring all over the Abarat. One group of people, however, remained solemn. A question had arisen, a very serious one, requiring great thought.

What was to be done with Christopher Carrion?

Several were all for executing him, others for a life-long imprisonment, but some were not so sure. The Great Council of Islands was still in turmoil, as a third or so of its members had been killed and the Chamber of Decrees on Soma Plume was still being rebuilt, so the bulk of decision-making fell to Candy Quackenbush and her closest allies. They had already organized and participated in much of the fighting. Finnegan Hob was even more respected now, if that were possible. The geshrat Malingo was recognized as a great sorcerer, and Candy herself had become a favorite of the islanders. The Council felt that Carrion's fate was in good hands.

However, there was still a great deal of debate among the friends as to what should be done with the last living Carrion. Everyone managed to agree that Mater Motley (fortunately deceased) had been the true evil behind the plot to bring Absolute Midnight to the Abarat, but Carrion's degree of involvement and responsibility was under debate. It was Candy Quackenbush who finally, after a solid week of discussion, came up with a solution that was generally accepted.

She presented the idea that Carrion's temperament should be judged. Could he be trusted to return quietly to Gorgossium with his titles and lands reinstated and forget plans of war, or was he likely to bide his time and try again to establish Absolute Midnight and take over the islands? Candy suggested keeping him in a sort of rehabilitation facility for a month or so where he could be observed.

Someone asked how Carrion could be judged when it would probably be quite easy for him to show no murderous or tyrannical tendencies for a month. The man _was_ a good actor, after all.

Candy considered this for a moment, then smiled, and began outlining her plan.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Christopher Carrion sat brooding in his cell, knowing that his fate was still being debated several corridors away. He thought rather bitterly that there wasn't much question about it – so why were they taking so _long_?

As if in response to the unspoken question, there was a short knock on the cell door, which was opened by a guard without waiting for a reply.

"You're bein' moved," he informed Carrion.

"To _where_?"

"To a rehabilitation place," the guard answered, with, it must be noted, a steady voice – an excellent accomplishment for someone staring down a simmering Carrion.

The formerly titled Prince of Midnight stood. "Very well."

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion was finally led through a door which opened onto a short, carpeted hall. To the left were two doorways, only one of which actually had a door. To the right, half of the hall opened onto a room, and he could see that it was connected by a large doorway to another room, also half-open to the hall.

The guard pointed to the doors on the left. "Bedroom, bathroom." Turning, he indicated the right side. "Kitchen, living room." Without another word, he turned around and went back through the door. There was quiet click, clearly audible in the empty hall, signifying that the door had been firmly locked.

He would not have admitted it, but the whole procedure had Carrion confused. What, he asked himself, was the _point_? Why was he suddenly moved from a cell to a – a "rehabilitation place?" Deciding that this particular question would most likely be answered later, Carrion set to exploring his new surroundings.

The bedroom was small with a carpeted floor, containing only a bed and a lamp on a small table. There was a small closet with several identical sets of clothing. A large mirror on the opposite wall was somewhat puzzling, but not particularly worth noting. It was closed to the hall except for the doorway without a door.

The bathroom, also small, was otherwise nothing special. Its most interesting feature was that (thankfully) it had a door. So far everything was very plain. _But then_, he thought wryly, _what else can I expect?_ He was a prisoner, not an honored guest.

He moved on to inspect the living room. This was carpeted as well, with somewhat more furniture, including a couch, an armchair, a table slightly larger than the bedroom's, and two lamps (one on the table, the other on the floor). Again, there was a large mirror, this one above the couch, on the wall opposite the hall.

Moving through a doorway in the wall separating living area from kitchen, Carrion studied the final room. A counter with a sink and a small lamp ran along one wall parallel to the hall. A large table (in comparison to the others, anyway) with two wooden chairs was placed in the middle of the room. There was a small door under the sink, and Carrion opened it to find two small bowls and a glass. Above the counter was yet another mirror.

Quite frankly, he was beginning to find the mirrors unnerving.

Visual inspection of the rooms completed, Carrion let his eyes close while he reached out with magical senses. He could feel the spells which blanketed the entirety of his new prison, especially thick around the door and the mirrors. All of them were spells against the occupant of the rooms breaking out, either physically or magically, and he recognized the majority of them as being from the volumes of Lumeric's Six. They ranged from simple to somewhat complex, and he felt a twinge of grudging respect for the caster, who'd wisely included "alarms" which would alert said caster if one of the spells was broken or even attacked. Some of the combinations were ones Carrion himself had used in the past.

He realized with interest that there was a familiar feel to the magic; he'd encountered this caster's work before. After a moment's concentration, it came to him – the _Wormwood_, anchored in the Hereafter, the battle on its deck – and his eyes blinked open in mild surprise. The geshrat. The one who'd been Kasper Wolfswinkel's slave, the one that- the one that _she_ had freed… Malingo, that was the name. And apparently he'd learned a few more tricks since then.

Someone knocked on the door, pulling Carrion out of his musings, and he heard another slight click as it was unlocked. He turned his head toward the opening door, and schooled his features into a cold mask.

"To whom do I owe the pleasure of a visit?" Carrion asked dryly.

"I came to explain what's going on."

Carrion's gaze focused sharply on the speaker, and a flare of emotion – anger? frustration? hatred? something else? – was briefly visible behind his eyes.

Candy Quackenbush stood in the hall with two guards. When Carrion did not otherwise respond, she started talking.

Candy explained that, for one month (or thirty days), Christopher Carrion would live here to be judged on his temperament – or, more plainly, whether he could be trusted to return peacefully to Midnight and not start another war. The mirrors in the three main rooms were actually a type of glass that allowed a person on the opposite side to see into the room, but prevented the occupant of that room from seeing his or her observer. And he would certainly be observed around the clock, so keep that in mind.

Additionally, as a way to accurately judge his character, he would have a "roommate." Carrion's interactions with this roommate would make up the bulk of the evidence that Candy and the others would use to decide Carrion's fate at the end of the month.

"A roommate?" Carrion repeated, with the faintest trace of distaste.

"Someone will be sharing these rooms with you for the month you're here," Candy elaborated.

It was a rather vague elaboration, Carrion thought, and he narrowed his eyes searchingly at her. Who in the Abarat did she and her followers hate enough to confine with their potentially-homicidal prisoner for thirty days?

"You'll be meeting him this evening, and I can tell you more then."

Several questions were on the tip of Carrion's tongue, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of his curiosity. Instead, he merely nodded – the condescending nod of a master dismissing his servant.

Candy's eyebrows drew down in a frown and she shook her head slightly, almost as if she'd been expecting better, then turned and left. The guards followed her out, looking visibly relieved at leaving the Lord of Midnight behind.

Carrion let out a slow sigh, walked back into the living room, and sat down on the couch. He closed his eyes. For what felt like the first time in memory, he was weary in body and mind – crushingly weary. From a long, draining magical battle with the Hag, he'd been flung first into the Izabella and then into a war in which either side would have been happy to kill him on sight. Add to that a week's worth of discomfort and tension while he waited to learn of his fate, and it was hardly surprising that it would all come crashing down on him the instant he could afford to relax a little. Before he realized what was happening, Carrion was asleep.

**_-.-.-.-_**

A sharp rap on the door jolted Carrion out of his uneasy rest, and in seconds he was on his feet, looking for all the world as though he'd never even shut his eyes. It took only a moment for him to recall Candy's visit in its entirety, and then he strode back through the kitchen toward the door.

It opened just as he passed the table. Candy had returned, the two guards hanging back in the doorway, along with…

"Jimothi Tarrie?" Carrion asked quietly. There was a nod. "Ah, yes. I've heard quite a lot about you." He paused, wondering if Jimothi was supposed to be the person sharing this place with him. "And you are here…?"

"I'm here with your-" Jimothi glanced at Candy.

"Roommate," she supplied.

"Yes, your roommate."

Carrion noted that Jimothi was carrying a small bundle. The girl held something as well – a small bag – but there was an ominous feel to that bundle. Carrion regarded it with deep suspicion.

"His parents were killed when Wolfswinkel was liberated, leaving him and his siblings orphaned. They were found by a member of the Ninth Hobarookian Infantry and raised by a human family for the first six weeks of their lives, so he's accustomed to living in buildings," Candy said.

Jimothi set the bundle gently on the floor. It twitched, and Carrion forced himself not to take a wary step back.

"You'll have to feed him, care for him, and play with him," Candy listed. "Your food will be brought to you three times a day, but you'll have to ask for _his_ food specifically."

"And he'll need to be given insects and rodents, to teach him what prey to hunt," Jimothi added. His eyes narrowed as he fixed the former Prince of Darkness with a firm stare. "And I warn you, Carrion. If you harm _one hair_-"

"If he's hurt in any way," Candy cut in, "you'll go back to your cell and-"

"Execution or lifelong imprisonment, yes?" Carrion held back a sigh. "And if - _it - _is not harmed?"

"Well, in theory, you would be allowed to return to Gorgossium with your property and titles restored. You'd be under supervision for a time, of course. Oh, I almost forgot." Candy couldn't resist a small, but very wicked, smile. "You're expected to keep a journal of your time with your new friend." She pulled a small book out of her bag, enjoying Carrion's 'you-must-be-_kidding_-me' look. "And it'd be nice if you named him," she added.

"Named him," Carrion repeated flatly. He looked down at the bundle again, and nudged it slightly with one foot.

There was a muffled, playful growl, and a small ball of orange fluff leaped out of the bundle, pouncing on the Lord of Midnight's foot. It was a young tarrie-kitten.

Candy, looking particularly self-satisfied, put the book on the table. Some food for the kitten was pulled out of the bag and set next to it, and she told him that the kitten was to be allowed in every room except the bathroom (the only room where Carrion was afforded a measure of privacy).

"And just so you can't claim to forget," Candy continued, "I've got a list for you." She pulled a folded piece of paper out of a pocket and propped it up near the sink. Carrion stepped forward to look over the "Rules and Regulations of Rehabilitation." So far nothing seemed to contradict or add to any of the instructions he'd already received, except…

"Litter?" Carrion asked, glancing at his visitors. Something about the word seemed distasteful and set off little warning bells in his head. The fact that Candy suddenly looked like she was trying not to snigger only made the bells ring louder.

"Well," the girl began, "seeing as you get a bathroom, it's only fair the tarrie-kitten gets one too." Carrion stared silently. And he remained silent as Candy explained further, only half-listening as he wondered just how he'd been brought so low. She and Jimothi left shortly afterward so that the two "roommates" could get better acquainted.

"Have fun, you two!" Candy couldn't resist calling over her shoulder as the door closed behind her.

Carrion seemed to be in some kind of shock. This couldn't really be happening, after all. It was only some sick joke they were playing before they killed him. Without thinking about what he was doing, he removed the two bowls from the cabinet. Emptying half of the container of food into one, he filled the other with water from the sink and set both on the floor. Taking no notice of the kitten's pleasure, he sat down in the chair in the living room.

Some time later – he wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there – Carrion blinked, and the full force of his situation came crashing down on him.

"Mrow!"

Carrion suppressed a groan. Luckily, the kitten was currently exploring the bedroom, so its attention was removed from Carrion for the time being. He was left to brood on this unbelievably undignified punishment, one which was clearly The Girl's idea through and through. For some time he sat there stewing. Then he felt a weight on his foot.

The kitten mewed.

So, Christopher Carrion, with good reason, was fuming.

And this was only the beginning.


	3. Ch 2: In Which it is Discovered that:::

Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

**Spoilers:** Books 1 and 2, as always

**Warnings/Pairings: **Well, I'm going out on a limb and assuming there are vets in the Abarat, and I don't know if I'm getting Carrion's character as well as I'd like. (shrugs) But I'm trying!

**Notes:** You get to read some of Carrion's journal entries now! Again, I don't know how I'm getting his character, but I think it's working out all right. (Oh, and it has been determined, using an actual cat to be sure, that cats have 5 claws on their front paws and 4 claws on the back ones. Dunno if this goes for tarries too, but oh well. Now it does.)

* * *

Chapter Two: In Which it is Discovered that Carrion Bleeds

**Journal Entry One: Day 1**

_Most of yesterday evening was spent wishing that this was just one of my more elaborate nightmares. However, I have my doubts that even_ my _mind could conjure such horrors. I did not sleep last night. If I lower my guard, I know That Thing will leap at the opportunity to attack me. I don't trust it. They obviously put it here to kill me._

_That Thing stalks me, following my every step and staring up at me with huge, innocent eyes. I once thought that girl, Candy, was innocent, and look where that notion led me! She proved to be crazy and dangerous, and I'm sure That Thing is as well._

_And I have to spend thirty days locked up with it._

_**-.-.-.-**_

And speaking of nightmares… Christopher Carrion unthinkingly started to lift a hand – then remembered, and let it drop. There was no glass collar around his neck anymore, no nightmares brushing against his face. The Hag had seen to that, may she rot for all eternity. A quiet meow interrupted Carrion's musings. The little tarrie was perching on his foot again, its head cocked adorably to one side. Its expression was hopefully questioning.

Candy's voice replayed in Carrion's head. _"You'll have to feed him, care for him, and play with him."_

"_Play_ with him," Carrion repeated, disgusted. "The Prince of Midnight does not _play_ with _kittens_."

The tarrie blinked up at him pleadingly.

"Fine," Carrion snarled. "_Off_."

Obligingly, the kitten hopped off of his foot, looking quite pleased.

It must be here noted that Christopher Carrion has no idea how to play with a kitten and, as a matter of fact, probably has little to no idea of how to "play" at all. However, he had heard once – he couldn't remember where or from whom – that cats liked to chase things and play with yarn or string.

Having no desire to become a toy himself, Carrion went into the kitchen, sat down at the table, and started to tear a strip of cloth off of the bundle of rags used to transport the kitten, which also served as its bed.

The kitten's ears flicked to and fro at the sound of ripping cloth, and his tail waved interestedly.

Carrion studied the results of his labor. He'd ended up with an eight-inch long strip about an inch wide. It didn't look like much.

Resignedly, he dropped one end in front of the kitten's expectant eyes and gave it a slight jerk. Gleefully, the tarrie batted at the cloth. Carrion twitched his hand back and forth so that the cat's end of the cloth danced enticingly. The kitten snatched at it, claws catching briefly in the material.

Smirking, Carrion tugged the cloth away and dangled it just out of the kitten's reach. Frowning, its brow furrowed in determination, the kitten reared up on its hind legs and stretched out for the cloth. Carrion merely raised it higher, still out of the kitten's grasp.

The tarrie took to jumping, but Carrion always pulled the cloth away at the last second. Gradually, he began to grow bored of the activity, now tugging the cloth away automatically and allowing his gaze to drift away from the cat.

This lack of attention was Christopher Carrion's first fatal mistake.

When, out of the corner of his eye, he saw no bouncing feline, Carrion let his arm rest on the corner of the table. The cloth dropped several inches because of this action, but he assumed that the kitten had given up and wandered off.

This assumption was Christopher Carrion's second fatal mistake.

The kitten had actually only retreated a few feet. It crouched down, eyes narrowed in an expression that made him look eerily like Carrion. Suddenly, it sprang forward, dashing toward the strip of cloth. At the last second, the determined tarrie shot into the air in a spectacular leap – so spectacular, in fact, that it overshot its mark. Finding itself three feet above ground, level with the table, the kitten panicked and latched onto the first thing it could reach to keep itself from falling.

Unfortunately, that thing happened to be Christopher Carrion's hand.

Carrion surged to his feet with a howl of surprise, pain, and sheer rage. Despite its small size, the tarrie's claws felt like ten white-hot needles, extraordinarily sharp, digging into his hand.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The two guards on duty behind the kitchen mirror looked up, startled at the horrific noise. Words spoken at a normal volume were a muffled drone from their position, but it has been speculated since that day that Carrion had been audible throughout the islands.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Meanwhile, the Lord of Midnight had begun a very undignified-looking dance around the kitchen, shaking his arm violently in an attempt to dislodge the tarrie he was cursing at profusely.

This wild behavior was Christopher Carrion's third and final fatal mistake.

The best thing Carrion could have done would have been to gently lower the kitten to the floor. Safe on the ground, it probably would have let go. Forceful shaking achieved the opposite result. Not only did the kitten clutch tighter to Carrion's hand, but it also grabbed onto his arm, midway between wrist and elbow, with its hind paws.

Now Carrion had eighteen needles stuck deep into his skin, and he was not pleased.

Thin ribbons of blood were trailing down his arm and dripping onto the kitten's fur. Drops of blood were spattered around the kitchen. Carrion, feeling more than a little insane, ran up to the mirror and shook the cat at it furiously, causing a small shower of blood.

"_Do you see this?_ I bleed like any other living creature! This is not rehabilitation! This is TORTURE BY ANIMAL!"

_**-.-.-.-**_

"He _does_ bleed," one of the guards muttered behind the glass, sounding astonished.

The other guard held out his hand in the universal "pay up" gesture. The first guard grimaced and dropped several paterzem into the proffered hand.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion pounded violently on the glass with his cat-free hand.

Startled, the guards immediately vacated their posts. One called the alarm while the other snatched the key to Carrion's door.

Finally, as he stumbled into the living room, Carrion whipped his arm away from his body with such force that the kitten was sent flying, hitting the back of the couch and leaving Carrion with eighteen two-inch cuts leading away from the sharp claws' punctures.

The injured Prince of Darkness howled again, and gritted his teeth against the fiery pain. Slowly, he advanced toward the dazed tarrie with deadly purpose written in his furious gaze.

At that moment, the two guards burst into the hall, and were in moments restraining Carrion, one tightly gripping each shoulder. He didn't struggle, but pure hate was radiating from him. Had he not been held back, it was very likely that the tarrie would have been strangled, and he would have been sent back to the cell.

Suddenly, a rather short man with graying hair and sharp black eyes, wearing a white coat and carrying a brown case, bustled in. His arrival broke the tension hanging in the air, and the guards relaxed their grip on Carrion ever so slightly.

Without sparing so much as a glance for the occupants of the living room, the man went straight to the tarrie. It seemed he was the Abaratian version of a veterinarian. He gently felt the cat's limbs and body, made sure its vision was tracking properly, and examined its paws.

"No broken bones and no torn claws," the vet finally announced. "He's a bit dizzy, but that'll pass." He turned abruptly to study Carrion. "Let this one go. I need to take a look at that arm." The man hurried into the kitchen, plunked his case down on the table, and opened it. When he saw that he was not followed, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling and waved impatiently. "Come on, come on, get in here!"

The guards warily released Carrion, who stalked into the kitchen. The vet turned the water on in the sink and gestured for Carrion to come closer.

With trepidation, the Lord of Midnight did as he was bidden. The vet snatched his elbow and shoved his hand into the stream of water.

Carrion clenched his teeth against a third howl, but couldn't keep a hiss of pain from escaping as the water stung his wounds. The vet slowly moved Carrion's arm back and forth through the water several times, thoroughly soaking the injuries as he studied them.

"Keep doing that," the man commanded, then let go of his elbow and turned to rummage in the case.

Obediently, Carrion continued to let water wash the dark red lines while he reflected on this new visitor. The total lack of fear, respect, hatred, or any interest at all in the Prince of Midnight was irksome, to say the least. It was, however, interesting to meet someone who didn't automatically cower or attack him.

The subject of Carrion's thoughts was suddenly back at the sink, rubbing his hands together vigorously in the water streaming off of Carrion's arm. Soon, a thin lather covered the swiftly moving hands. Apparently he was holding a small bar of soap.

"So. Who are you?" Carrion kept his voice neutral.

"Tev," was the man's short reply. Everything about him was short, from stature to temper. His manner and speech were brisk, and it was plain he was one to speak his mind.

Carrion nodded once, and decided that perhaps he would be able to tolerate the vet.

That is, until Tev started scrubbing Carrion's wounds with soapy hands. The injured man had to clench his teeth again.

Tev rinsed his hands off, and then did the same to Carrion's injuries. He turned off the water, gestured at a chair, and pulled a cloth out of his case to use as a towel. Carrion sat down, and the vet patted the slashes dry with a surprising gentleness. Then he dropped the towel and pulled a small jar from the case.

"Antiseptic cream," Tev said by way of explanation as he unscrewed the lid and began applying the pale green cream to the deep scratches.

Carrion, braced for another round of pain, was pleasantly surprised by the cool, soothing effect of the cream. He allowed himself to relax muscles tense with pain and anger. After a few minutes of diligent work, Tev twisted the cap back on and pulled a roll of bandages out.

"Next time," the vet instructed as he wrapped up Carrion's wounds, "put the cat _down_. Be gentle. Then he'll let go, you see?"

Carrion growled something that may or may not have been an affirmation. Tev took it as a "yes" and continued.

"You'll have to wash the blood off his fur before it dries."

"I am not going to wash That Thing," Carrion refused flatly.

"Yes, you are," Tev told him.

"No, I most certainly-"

"Yes, you are, or every island will know in under three days that the terrible Christopher Carrion is deathly afraid of a little tarrie-kitten."

"That's a lie," Carrion growled, voice dangerously quiet.

"Maybe it is, and maybe it is not," was the vet's response, "but I don't believe the islanders know that anymore than I do."

Carrion leaned back in the chair, signaling defeat. He decided that the man had earned a very small amount of respect, if only because he had the audacity to stand up to the Lord of Midnight. Tev nodded and finished tying off the bandages. Then he repacked the antiseptic and the remaining bandages, but left the soap and towel for Carrion's future use.

"Hopefully I won't be visiting off-schedule again," Tev said, voice carrying a hint of warning as he snapped the brown case shut and picked it up. Without another word, he strode out of the kitchen and through the door. Carrion entertained thoughts of going after the man and tossing him out the nearest window for daring to threaten _him_, of all people, but thought better of it. It was clear that his captors relied on this man to assess the health of That Thing, so it would be to his benefit to remain on the veterinarian's good side. Or at least his neutral side.

The two guards decided that the situation was under control and also took their leave. Their prisoner listened, half-hoping that they'd forget to lock the door in all the excitement, but he heard the short click and heaved a quiet sigh.

So Christopher Carrion was left alone with the tarrie-kitten, who hopped off the couch, padded into the kitchen, sat down on the Lord of Midnight's foot.

"I _loathe_ you," Carrion hissed.

The kitten blinked up at him, then bent its furry head to clean the blood from its chest.

"NO!" yelled Carrion, quite suddenly, and he lunged, snatching the kitten by the scruff of its neck. "It's bad enough that you claw me to death, but you are _not_ going to get a taste for my blood!" The irate man stood and dumped the confused kitten in the sink.

As he turned the water on and began roughly scrubbing the blood from the kitten's coat, it mewed in a pleased way. To Carrion's surprise and irritation, it started purring.

Carrion was very frustrated that his point wasn't getting across. "I _despise_ you!" he muttered furiously, grabbing the vet's soap with one hand and gripping the cat more firmly with the other.

The tarrie-cat merely purred louder, and began licking drops of water from the hand on its neck.

Christopher Carrion groaned, defeated again.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_It was_ licking _me! That Thing was_ licking _me! Stupid, stupid, thrice-cursed cat!_

…_But perhaps it's a _blessed_ cat. Any other creature daring to sink claws into my flesh would have been killed on the spot, yet that That Thing is protected._

_It's just waiting for another chance to attack me, the little terror. I know it. And it's trying to lull me into thinking that it's_ cute _and_ innocent_ and would never in all its pathetic life dream of harming me._

_Well, it can try, but I will not be deceived. And That Thing is only protected for so long… just twenty-nine more days…_

_I _loathe_ it._

_Thrice-cursed cat._


	4. Ch 3: In Which There is a Suspicious:::

Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

**Spoilers: **Abarat Books 1 and 2

**Warnings and Pairings: **Hmm… Neither this time, I think. Except that I will be taking the liberty of assuming there are crickets in the Abarat.

**Notes: **Thanks for the awesome reviews everyone!

* * *

Chapter Three: In Which There is a Suspicious Lack of Fruit

**Journal Entry Two: Day 2**

_That Thing has finally finished with all of its food. If only I could let it starve… It deserves a slow, painful death. I suppose the only advantage of my imprisonment is a long, uninterrupted stretch of time to plot the creature's demise in a fitting way. That will, in fact, be the primary focus of my writings. If I am to be forced to do so, I might as well take the opportunity to plan my triumphant return to Midnight._

_I don't believe That Thing understands the true danger it's in; it slept for a long time after attacking me. Hopefully it has learned its lesson as far as-_

_**-.-.-.-**_

A loud knock on the door prompted Christopher Carrion to shut the book with a snap, startling the tarrie-kitten snoozing on the couch, and make his way to the kitchen. The kitten was left to blink, stretch, yawn, and follow.

By the time Carrion had entered the kitchen, a guard was entering the hall carrying a tray of food. Without comment, the tray was set on the table and the guard turned to leave.

"That Thing needs more food," Carrion muttered reluctantly, disgusted with himself.

"A'right," the guard said. "Be back in a sec." The door shut, the lock clicked, and Carrion sat down to breakfast.

This morning's tray held three thick slices of bread, lightly buttered, and two ripe smyrion fruits. Carrion allowed a thin smile to grace his lips. He was rather partial to the fruit, and although these could hardly compare to the quality of the orchard that had once thrived on Pyon, they would have to do. There was no knife, of course, but the fork he'd been supplied with would cut the fruit easily enough.

About to start eating, Carrion was interrupted by the return of the guard, this time carrying a second container of food for the kitten in one hand, and balancing a platter of something one would assume to find on the person of Leeman Vol, rather than in a respectable dwelling, on the other.

"What," Carrion began quietly, "is _that_?"

"Crickets," was the answer. It seemed that the guard wasn't keen to be drawn into a conversation with the Lord of Midnight, but Carrion's raised eyebrows demanded further explanation. "Jimothi Tarrie sez the kitten hasta learn to eat stuff he'd find outside, hunting."

Said kitten had padded into the kitchen behind Carrion and was now gazing up at the guard with interest.

"So," Carrion mused, studying the tarrie. "Jimothi wishes to bring you back to Ninnyhammer when we're through?"

The tarrie, switching its attention to Carrion, merely blinked and made no response. The guard, unsure if he was being addressed, made a vague sort of shrug and warily deposited both the cat food and the cricket platter on the kitchen table. Carrion eyed the deceased insects with disgust, then twitched his hand in a brief, dismissive gesture. The guard left quickly, eager to be out of the man's company, and Carrion was free to enjoy his breakfast in peace.

Well, sort of.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The kitten transferred his amber gaze to the container on the table. He was hungry. He knew the container meant food. He knew that food made the uncomfortable hunger pangs go away. Therefore, if the Tall Snarling Man did not put a bowl of food down (which he was _not_ doing), the kitten must help himself. It was that simple. He eyed the distance from floor to tabletop.

Okay. Perhaps not quite so simple.

Still, the kitten could easily recall his magnificent leap of the previous day – he was very proud of it, in fact – and was confident that the maneuver could be duplicated. He crouched low, muscles coiling like springs in his hind legs, and judged the distance yet again. Then he gathered his strength and pushed away from the floor.

The table edge came nearer – nearer – _yes_! His claws slipped for a moment on the flat surface, then dug into the wood. He'd made it!

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion looked up in vague surprise at the sound of claws scraping wood. It took mere seconds to deduce the reason for the kitten's jump, and then he was content to simply sit back and enjoy the show.

"You look like you might fall soon. Your grip doesn't seem too strong," said Carrion conversationally, smirking as the young tarrie struggled.

At his words, the kitten glanced over at him with a reproachful glare. Carrion smiled back, hoping that perhaps he'd be granted a sliver of luck and the cat would fall. Maybe it would even break something. Carrion allowed himself to close his eyes and savor the image.

That vet would come…he'd take That Thing away to be healed…the Lord of Midnight would at last be left to his own devices…and without something to torment him with, Candy would be forced to release him. With that thought, Carrion's mind wandered back to Gorgossium, and plans for rebuilding on the island rose behind his closed eyes.

Yet again, lack of attention was Christopher Carrion's downfall.

_**-.-.-.-**_

With a colossal heave, the tarrie-cat hauled himself up onto the tabletop. After taking a moment to enjoy the view, the kitten turned to the container of food. He stepped toward it, but a particularly enticing smell caught his attention. He followed the scent to two fruits lying on the tray in front of the Tall Snarling Man. Jimothi had told him the human's proper name once, but it was something long and complicated, already forgotten. And anyway, the new title suited the man better.

The kitten focused on the fruit. Snarl wasn't watching, and they smelled _sooo_ good… After half a minute of careful maneuvering, he had both of the short stems clamped tightly between his teeth. The weight was awkward, but manageable. He crept to the table's edge and peered over. The distance to the floor was dizzying.

For another quarter minute, the kitten thought about this. Only one safe solution presented itself, and it wasn't one he much liked. Steeling himself, the tarrie jumped from the table to Snarl's lap, and from there to the floor.

Without a backward glance, he was off like a shot for the relative safety of the living room.

_**-.-.-.-**_

When the kitten's small paws hit his legs, Carrion was jerked sharply away from the construction of a new tower and back to the kitchen. His eyes snapped open, the kitten leapt off, and he surged to his feet. The poor chair was sent flying toward the sink.

Growling dire threats under his breath at the fleeing feline, Carrion righted the chair and sat irritably back down. Still muttering, he reached out for a smyrion fruit-

-and got nothing.

For a moment, Carrion was confused. There had been two pieces of fruit, yes? So where was the fruit? An image of the cat hanging from the table flashed into his mind.

"You _filthy_ little- !"

The chair went flying again as the irate Prince of Darkness stormed into the living room in pursuit of the thieving tarrie. Carrion caught sight of a tail disappearing under the couch. This piece of furniture stood about half a foot from the wall that held one of the observation mirrors. Crouching down, Carrion reached under the couch in an attempt to drag his quarry out and was promptly scratched.

Swallowing a yelp of pain, he gingerly reached in with his other hand. This time, the kitten scooted away until it was pressed against the wall – just inches out of Carrion's reach. Angrily, he shoved his shoulder against the couch until it hit the wall, allowing him to reach further, was scratched again for his pains, and _still_ could not reach the last half-inch to the tarrie-cat.

To say that Christopher Carrion was frustrated would be an immense understatement.

He stood up and backed away from the couch, glaring at the gap between it and the floor. Then he resorted to an action common to those under similar stress. Carrion began to curse the kitten in a low, heated snarl.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Candy and Malingo had the misfortune to be on guard duty behind the living room mirror at the time, and Carrion's voice came in muffled but generally understandable. For a solid three minutes the Lord of Midnight ranted on, without repeating himself once. Here was a feat even Bill Quackenbush had been unable to achieve.

"I haven't heard half of those," Candy commented with interest.

"Lady, if I catch you repeating one word of that little speech, I will wash your mouth out with soap," Malingo warned her, and Candy grinned.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Meanwhile, Carrion had moved on to profanity in Old Abarat. Once that supply of choice words had been exhausted, he moved on to cursing the kitten's parents, its siblings, the mire that had failed to kill them, its grandparents, all its ancestor back to the beginning of time, Jimothi (because he brought it), Candy (because this was all her idea), and his grandmother (because he hated her and he was running out of people to swear at).

Finally, after a full eight minutes, Carrion's supply of curse words and targets for his rage ran out. He muttered a last few disgusted words at himself for letting his guard down, and stopped. Carrion normally wasn't one for swearing, preferring to simply terrify the living daylights out of those who disappointed him with a few soft words, but frankly he was at the end of his tether and thought that perhaps his lapse could be excused under the circumstances. Feeling a bit better, he let out a slow breath and returned to the problem of extracting the kitten from under the couch. A quick glance under the sofa showed that the animal had already devoured one of the fruits.

Suddenly, it hit him.

Magic had been firmly outlawed in his prison. Carrion had correctly assumed that the rule applied here as well, but had Candy actually said that? Or included it in her "Rules and Regulations" list?

_No, _he thought smugly._ She mentioned nothing of the sort._

Carrion knelt in front of the couch about a foot or two away and stretched out his hands, grimacing briefly at the drying blood on them. An invisible force wrapped itself around the young tarrie and began pulling it to the edge of the couch. The Lord of Midnight did his best not to let his anger get the better of him as he dragged the cat out. While it would be most enjoyable to squeeze the animal until every bone in its worthless body shattered, that would have to wait until his thirty days were up.

Finally, leaving long scratch marks in the carpeting, the kitten was pulled forth. Carrion stood, the kitten hovering a few feet from him at shoulder height, and he smiled.

"Stealing my food is not the way to earn a quick and painless death," he explained softly, almost kindly, and a little shiver passed over the young tarrie at the tone of his voice.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Behind the mirror, Candy stood too, though rather more sharply than Carrion had. "Magic?" she hissed, staring at the floating kitten.

"I thought he knew it wasn't allowed," said Malingo, adding wryly, "Perhaps he lost his temper."

"Doesn't matter." Candy strode away from the mirror, obviously intending to confront her prisoner over his behavior.

Malingo shook his head. "I'll get the guards then," he said to the air. "There's no sense in you confronting a homicidal maniac on your own, my lady."

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion, still smiling and unaware of the impending interruption, walked back into the kitchen, set the kitten down on the table near the cricket platter, and released his magical hold on it.

"_That_ is your food," he said, voice still pleasant, "and if you even _look_ at mine again I will crush you like the insect you are."

Thoroughly cowed, the tarrie-cat crouched behind the container of food in hopes of putting some form of protection between himself and Carrion.

The former Lord of Gorgossium would have gone back to reclaim his fruit, and that would have been the end of this particular confrontation, if Candy (six guards trailing behind her) had not come bursting through the door.

Carrion grimaced and let out a slow sigh. He crossed his arms over his chest and assumed a bored air as the guards formed a circle around him. He could only assume that this was for the protection of the girl and the cat. It was amusing, really. He could flatten all of them with a simple bit of magic, kill the ones they were trying to keep safe, and be out of this "rehabilitation" for good.

The only drawback to this plan of action was that there were more than six guards, one girl, and a cat to deal with. Even if he managed to escape to Gorgossium, the pretty boy and the geshrat would hunt him down till either they were both dead or he was. If it came to this, Carrion intended to be the living one, but there were no guarantees. A life on the run or a swift execution… Those were two scenarios that Christopher Carrion did _not_ consider options. Therefore, the _only_ option was to stand there and let the guards think they were doing a good job.

"I thought it was made perfectly clear that no magic of any kind would be tolerated!" Candy stroked the kitten's head gently as she spoke, but her voice held a mixture of exasperation and irritation. Carrion couldn't quite quell a small surge of old affection at her irate expression.

"When you explained the rules of my stay here, magic was never mentioned," Carrion responded smoothly. "How could I have known it wasn't allowed? Surely you wouldn't have me killed simply because I lacked information." He had her there, he knew it.

Candy glared. She knew that he knew he wasn't allowed to do magic. She also knew that she hadn't reminded him of that fact when he was transferred from prison to rehabilitation. Carrion was using that to his advantage – she knew that, too – but there wasn't anything she could do about it. "All right. I'll let it slide this once, but now you know. No more excuses."

"Of course."

Further conversation was cut off as someone shoved the door open. Carrion winced ever so slightly as the door knob crashed into the wall. It made such perfect sense that as soon as he was given a half-decent place to stay, someone would run about bashing holes in it.

It seemed that Tev, the veterinarian, had returned.

True to his nature, the man went straight to the tarrie on the table, shoving Candy, guards, and Carrion out of the way indiscriminately. He was muttering darkly to himself as he dropped his brown case on the table and began examining the kitten.

"And what has he done to you this time, poor kit? Honestly – trusting a man like that to look after an impressionable young creature…" Here he paused to shoot a glare off that seemed to put the blame on everyone present, and continued on in this vein until his examination was complete. Turning to Candy, he said, "Except for a being a bit wheezy and a bit scared, with some sore claws, he's fine." Tev then rounded on Carrion. "And _why_ is he wheezy? You squeezed a bit too hard, didn't you? Entertaining thoughts of crushing his ribs, weren't you?"

Though Carrion would have loved to confess his desire to murder That Thing in the most painful way he could devise, he felt that such a comment would be detrimental to his goal of returning to Midnight, and wisely decided to stay silent.

Tev snorted. "Let's see your arm, then." Resigned, Carrion held out the requested limb. He'd removed the bandages from yesterday's misadventure earlier that morning, and both the punctures and scratches were healing well. The vet gave a nod of approval before turning to Carrion's hands – not a pretty sight. "You just can't handle a day with that kit and not come out bleeding, can you?" Tev commented. Carrion glowered and gritted his teeth against an angry retort. "You still have the soap and towel?" Carrion nodded grudgingly. Tev pointed at the sink. "Wash."

Still more grudgingly, Carrion stalked over to the sink and turned the water on. Meanwhile, Candy was staring at the vet in open-mouthed awe.

"How do you _do_ that?" she asked, amazed.

"Do what?" Tev sounded rather distracted – he was hunting for the antiseptic cream.

"I mean, you just - and he -" Candy gestured at the scowling Lord of Midnight obediently washing his injured hands, lost for words.

Carrion growled something that was likely unfit for polite company under his breath, and Tev, having found the cream, looked up at Candy in slight surprise.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he said, sounding, for the first time, somewhat bewildered.

This caused more unintelligible mutters from Carrion, who shut the water off and began gingerly drying his hands. Candy, still looking on in disbelief, told the guards that they could leave. It was obvious that the situation was in expert hands.

"Hands," Tev instructed, back in control. Carrion held them out, and the vet swiftly daubed the soothing cream on the scratches. "There. Done. You won't need bandages for these."

With that said, Tev dropped the jar back into the brown case, slammed the case shut, rubbed the tarrie briefly behind the ears, nodded to Candy, and was gone. There was a long moment of silence.

"Is he _always_ like that?" Candy finally asked.

"From what I've seen, yes," Carrion grumbled, studying his hands.

They stood silently together for a few seconds longer, then Candy left as well, and the lock clicked behind her.

A quiet mew caught Carrion's attention, and his sharp gaze focused on the kitten. It was standing at the edge of the table, clearly wanting to get down.

"I should leave you there to break your filthy neck trying to jump down," Carrion snarled at it. But The Girl's furious face flickered before his eyes, and he heard Tev's threat again.

_"…or every island will know…that the terrible Christopher Carrion is deathly afraid of a little tarrie-kitten."_

The Prince of Darkness heaved a long sigh, picked the kitten up by the scruff of its neck, and deposited it on the floor. Immediately, it scampered off into the living room.

Carrion picked up the kitchen chair and sat down, looking exhausted. It was too early for all this! He rested his chin moodily in one hand, elbow on the tabletop, and tried to recall his last plan for Gorgossium…

A muffled meow and an all-too-familiar weight on his foot interrupted his thoughts. Deeply irritated, Carrion looked down to see the kitten perched on his foot, carrying half a smyrion fruit in its mouth, the other half clearly in its stomach. Carrion nearly snapped right then, but, before he could do something rash, the tarrie stepped off his foot and gently set the fruit down where it had been sitting.

Slowly, Carrion reached down and picked up the fruit. The kitten's amber eyes glowed with happiness. He gave it an inscrutable look, stood up, and set the platter of crickets on the floor in front of it. As the kitten began to sample the insects cautiously, Carrion retreated to the living room, still holding the piece of fruit.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_That Thing tried to poison me. As if attempting to bleed me dry isn't enough, it tried to _poison_ me! Well, I'm returning the favor. A plate of insects is a fair exchange for a half-eaten piece of fruit. I can only hope That Thing will be unable to digest those crickets and subsequently die a horribly painful death. But then, I suppose I mustn't get my hopes up. Knowing the nature of my captors, I'd likely be blamed for it somehow._

_Vile beast._


	5. Ch 4: In Which Torture Sessions Begin

Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

**Spoilers:** Same old, same old…

**Warnings/Pairings:** Some of you, like Carrion, may find a character freaky. If at any time you are disturbed, I urge you to exit this chapter and go have a big bowl of ice cream. Or some chocolate. Or whatever works for you.

**Notes:** Well… I hate six-paragraph author excuses, so I'll keep it simple. A combination of whatever life could throw at me and my own laziness delayed this chapter for an inexcusable amount of time, and all of you have my sincerest apologies. I do hope you enjoy yourselves. ;)

* * *

Chapter Four: In Which the Torture Sessions Begin

**Journal Entry Four: Day 5**

_It's a pity That Thing loves crickets. And the other insects Jimothi Tarrie has had delivered. Ah well. It will meet its doom soon enough. Oddly, our relationship has improved. I tend to ignore it, and it stays out of my way._

_There has been so little conflict over the last day or so that I am led to wonder how long the peace will last…_

_**-.-.-.-**_

Christopher Carrion paused to glance down at his hands, which were criss-crossed with a myriad of scratches in various stages of healing.

All right, so perhaps there wasn't _that_ much of a lack of conflict, but it had been pretty quiet compared to the first two days.

It was late afternoon, and Carrion had just finished the lunch provided for him. The tarrie-cat, also just finished eating, was curled up in a corner of the couch and snoozing contentedly. Carrion had briefly entertained thoughts of smothering it with a cushion, but in the end let it sleep. After all, the goal was a slow, painful death – or rather, nine slow and painful deaths – and suffocation did not quite fit the requirements. Besides, there was a lazy air to the afternoon, and Carrion was half-tempted to retreat to his bedroom and follow the kitten's example. He'd discovered that it was much easier to avoid killing a psychotic animal when asleep.

Thus, it might have been another less-than-eventful day, had not someone knocked on the door.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Candy was sitting behind the kitchen mirror with Jimothi that afternoon when the fateful knock sounded.

"This should be very interesting," she said to Jimothi with a wicked grin.

Her companion shook his head. "I don't know how you come up with these things. If everyone is alive when this is over, it will be a miracle."

The girl's expression turned thoughtful. "Do you think I should've warned him?"

"Well, it's too late now, isn't it?" Jimothi answered practically. He paused a moment, then gave her a rather devious smile. "Besides, he needs a good shock. And this way it'll be more fun – that is, more revealing of his progress."

Candy nodded, grinning, and turned back to the mirror to watch the show. "Too bad we don't have popcorn," she murmured as the door opened.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion looked up sharply at the knock, confused. No one should be pestering him right now. He'd behaved _perfectly_ the whole day! Half out of irritation and half out of curiosity, Carrion went into the kitchen to greet his visitor. The kitten, startled into wakefulness, stretched and trotted after him.

When Carrion had stood by the table for almost fifteen seconds without someone bursting in, his confusion was increased, and an odd sense of foreboding came over him. Then he shrugged it off as a guard tormenting him and turned to go back to the living room.

More knocking stopped him.

Carrion was puzzled for a moment, but then he realized that whoever was there was waiting for permission to enter. He walked into the hall and paused a few feet from the door. Permission? From _him_? He almost laughed. If he even touched that doorknob he'd probably be swarmed by guards and carted off to a cell. And even if he wasn't, wouldn't it be amusing to watch the Lord of Midnight trying to yank open a locked door?

Instead, he merely called out, "I assume that it's open." Sure enough, whoever-it-was had been given a key. The door opened, and Christopher Carrion had the shock of his life.

It was huge. It was absolutely, enormously, _huge_. And bright. And shiny. Very, _very_ shiny. It was probably the most obscene thing Carrion had seen in his existence (which, for Carrion, is saying quite a lot). He almost had to shield his eyes against the blinding white light radiating from it, blinking furiously to clear his vision enough to see the man standing behind it.

He was a short man. Tev was a 5'6" kind of short, but this was more of a 4'11" kind of short. Plus, whereas the vet gave an impression of purpose and controlled power, this newest visitor gave an impression that was more of – well, a pillow, Carrion decided. A big, round, squishy, bright-yellow-smiley-face pillow.

It was very disturbing.

He was wearing a white coat similar to Tev's over an alarmingly purple shirt and more ordinary brown pants. The shoes, also, were relatively normal. The large bag he carried, however, was too bright a shade of yellow to be normal, and it had scary-looking pink dots all over it. As for the man's face, all Carrion could make out was a great puff of black hair threaded with gray, which was reminiscent of a rather fluffy dead animal. The rest of his features were obscured by the huge, glaringly white object.

This object was a grin. And it was really starting to creep Carrion out.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"Why, I'm here for your therapy, of course!" The odd man received a blank look, and (to Carrion's immense relief) his grin faded slightly. "You were not told?"

"Of course I wasn't," Carrion answered with only the barest hint of sarcasm, deciding to stay on the civil side out of caution.

The visitor frowned. Actually, he couldn't seem to do a frown. It was more of a pout. Carrion eyed him distastefully. "Well that's not good at all! I'm so sorry, is this a bad time?"

"Without a doubt."

"It's just not_ friendly_ to barge in on people," the man fretted, taking no notice of Carrion's response. He suddenly brightened, as if struck by a pleasant thought. "I would like to be your friend, Mister Carrion."

"If you call me that again, I'm afraid you won't live long enough to achieve your goal," 'Mister' Carrion responded dryly, wondering if the "Thou Shalt Not Kill" rule extended to this nutcase.

"Oh! I almost forgot! That charming young lady, Miss Quackenbush, requested that I tell you immediately upon making your acquaintance that you are to treat me as a 'roommate.' Won't that that be fun?" He beamed.

Carrion almost had a heart attack.

Surely Candy couldn't possibly mean that the freakish "therapist" would be _staying_! Not even he himself, feared Lord of Gorgossium, would inflict such mental torture on anyone! Well, perhaps the Hag, but that would be a special case.

"I told her I'd love to stay," the man continued, oblivious to the violent reaction, "but I do have other patients to attend to. Let's sit down in the kitchen, shall we?"

Suppressing a sigh of relief, Carrion realized that Candy had only meant that the visitor was to be treated like the tarrie (otherwise interpreted as the "Thou Shalt Not Kill" rule does apply) and watched his newest adversary bounce off to the kitchen. The kitten blinked, somewhat surprised by the sudden appearance of a stranger. Absolutely thrilled, the man snatched up the cat and began fawning over it.

This action sealed Carrion's already intense dislike.

"Oh, isn't this little critter just _adorable_?" Grinning all over his face, the man waved Carrion over.

The Prince of Darkness gave both man and cat a look of disgust and stalked over to his chair, sitting stiffly, and focused a dark stare on the opponent sitting opposite him. "So." His voice was dangerously soft. "Once again: who are you and why are you inflicting your presence on me?"

Looking up from the tarrie, the man's smile widened. "I am going to be your therapist for the remainder of your stay here. My name is Doctor Barnabas E. Friendly."

_**-.-.-.-**_

Behind the mirror, Candy lost it. She laughed so hard at the expression on Carrion's face that her companion had to support her. Even the normally serious Jimothi chuckled at the look his enemy displayed – although in truth, his reaction had been similar to Carrion's when he'd first been introduced to the therapist. In fact, Dr. Friendly seemed to have that effect on most sane beings…

_**-.-.-.-**_

The tarrie-kitten was very freaked out. The nice girl had made a bit of a fuss over him when Jimothi had introduced her to him, but this was very different.

He'd been sitting there in the kitchen, minding his own business, when suddenly some random man swooped down on him and started petting him and hugging him and cuddling him and complimenting him until he thought he'd die of asphyxiation. After several days with the Tall Snarling Man this was unexpected, uncomfortable, and just plain _weird_.

So, he did the only thing that made sense, and struggled to get away as if a horde of sacbrood were after him. (Or perhaps just Carrion. Either worked.)

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion observed the tarrie's wild twisting with interest, feeling torn. Should he help the hated nuisance that was out to kill him, or let the creepy "therapist" with the sickeningly bright smile have fun tormenting it?

_Better the devil you know, I suppose, _he decided. "Let That Thing go before I get blamed for blood on the floor."

Reluctantly, the cat was released, and it was away in a flash. Carrion assumed it would retreat to the safety of the couch, but instead it crouched down under his chair. Warily, Carrion shifted his feet out of reach before returning his attention to the man who now had an orange sweater of cat hair over his purple shirt.

"You said your name was…_Friendly_?" Carrion grimaced, as though the word left a revolting taste in his mouth.

"Why yes, it is," Friendly replied. "My family changed it some time ago to better suit our work." He shot off another neon grin, and Carrion shuddered at the thought of an entire line of crazed so-called therapists, continuing on infinitely, existing only to torment perfectly sane people. "I've been a therapist for many years now, and my great-grandfather worked at Orlando's Cap before the asylum was shut down. Perhaps you've heard our name before?"

"I believe I have heard something of your family, actually," Carrion answered in a falsely pleasant voice. "Something about your ancestor being committed. After the asylum closed, there was no other place willing to take such a bad case. How the islands mourn the loss of Orlando's Cap…"

"Oh, it's really a lovely place," Friendly assured him.

"Perhaps you should take up permanent residence," Carrion suggested.

"But I'm not here to talk about me," the therapist said, either not hearing or ignoring the growled comment "could have fooled me." Instead, he fixed a scrutinizing gaze on the Lord of Midnight. It was the most normal he'd yet looked. He steepled pudgy fingers, resting his hands on the table. "Information given to me by one of your caretakers has led me to believe that you may suffer from ailurophobia."

"Caretakers?" Carrion snorted. "I'm neither an invalid nor otherwise unable to support myself. I believe 'jailers' would be a more appropriate term." He paused, brow furrowing in sudden thought. "Ailurophobia?" Ailurophobia… He should know this. The Hag had made him memorize every known phobia and then some, so-

"It means 'fear of cats,' actually, and is-" The therapist got no further.

"_WHAT?_" Carrion roared, surging to his feet and knocking the abused chair once more into less-than-graceful flight. The kitten huddled against his heels nervously.

"Do calm down, Mister Carrion," Friendly admonished him. "Please, sit like a civilized person."

"I'm not a civilized person!" Carrion snarled, but he picked up the chair and slammed it back into an upright position. He reseated himself, muttering viciously, "It was that _Tev_, curse him!"

"Now now, Mist-"

"You may call me Carrion," the irate man interrupted in a violent hiss. "You may call me _Lord_ Carrion or _Prince_ Carrion or _Master_ Carrion. You _may not_ call me 'Mister' Carrion, and if you do I will kill you with my bare hands and _enjoy it_."

"May I call you Christopher? I do try to be on first-name terms with…" Carrion's murderous glare and tightly clenched fists caused him to trail off. Sighing, Dr. Friendly pulled a pad and pen out of a coat pocket and began scribbling notes. "Lots of repressed rage…possibly homicidal…in denial of ailurophobia..."

"I am not afraid of cats!" Carrion yelled, control finally snapping. He must have snapped, or he'd never have considered doing what he did next.

He reached under the chair, picked up the kitten by the scruff of its neck, and plunked it down on his lap. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and glared defiantly at the wide-eyed man across from him.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Behind the mirror, Jimothi's eyebrows shot to the top of his forehead and Candy's mouth dropped open in shock.

"Did he just-" Jimothi started to ask.

"Yes," Candy interrupted.

"But-"

"I know."

"Why-?"

"No clue."

"But he-"

"Yeah."

They glanced at each other, stunned into silence. Finally, Candy managed a word.

"Wow."

Jimothi nodded slowly. Yes. _Wow_. Maybe this therapy thing hadn't been such a bad idea after all…

_**-.-.-.-**_

The kitten was also stunned. The Tall Snarling Man had actually put him on his lap! And Snarl wasn't yelling or anything! It was easily the strangest thing he'd ever experienced. Even being nearly suffocating by hugging and petting wasn't such an odd occurrence compared to this! He curled up in an orange ball, trying to figure it out.

It seemed that Snarl was angry at the-freaky-man-who-clings-like-a-leech. Well, good. Snarl didn't let anyone but the nice man, Tev, boss him around, so hopefully the Freaky Leech Man would be gotten rid of soon.

When all was said and done, he preferred Snarl to Leech. Definitely.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The therapist blinked. "Interesting." He scribbled a bit more, then looked up at Carrion with a smile (one thankfully smaller than and not as bright as the first). "I understand you've been asked to keep a journal, yes?"

Carrion sneered.

"Would you bring it to me?"

The sneer disappeared and was replaced by one of Carrion's patented glares.

"It's crucial to get a better understanding of you as my patient, and as such it would be very helpful if-"

He stopped as the glare intensified and Carrion raised an eyebrow ever so slightly.

"Well," he said cheerily, "moving on!"

The glare faded into a skeptical look, and Carrion absentmindedly let a hand rest on the tarrie's back. (Well, one couldn't expect him to sit there with his arms crossed like a sullen teenager all day. Besides, it prevented the cat from running off.) The therapist proceeded to ask him a series of inane questions that soon began to seriously try the man's patience.

"Now then. Why are you here?"

"Because I'm evil." Carrion's response was so thick with acid sarcasm that some dripped onto the table. Friendly frowned briefly at the smoking holes where it ate away at the wood.

"So you consider yourself…'evil'?"

"Oh, of course I don't. I'm a poor, misunderstood, innocent, abused man who was forced to do all sorts of horrible things by his cruel grandmother."

Friendly decided it would be a good idea to discontinue that line of questioning before the entire table was gone. "Are you unhappy here? Do you want to leave?"

Carrion stared at him, too stunned by this idiocy to be properly sarcastic. "_Of course_ I want to get out! Would _you_ like to be locked up under constant surveillance with a disgusting beast trying to kill you?"

"Hm." The therapist scribbled something on his notepad. "Well, how do you plan on getting out?"

The discussion of his rehabilitation and "how it makes you feel" went on and on, until the Midnight Prince's nerves were so frazzled that he found himself entertaining dark contemplations of attacking his torturer with crickets. When the interview came around to more personal questions, Carrion almost chucked the cat at him. As if finally sensing his patient's barely restrained fury, Friendly set the notepad down and smiled.

"Well, that should do for now. It's so good to know you better – I think we're going to be wonderful friends!" As the therapist bent over to rummage in his garish bag, Carrion let out an inaudible sigh and gave profuse thanks to any listening gods for the small mercy of silence, and promising mildly decent behavior for eternity so long as the word "friend" did not profane his hearing again.

"Now _this_," Friendly said eagerly, his head popping back over the table edge, "is _new_. I'm told it's used in the Hereafter as well. I think they call it 'Rorschach prints' or some such thing. At least, that's what Miss Quackenbush called it." He set a stack of paper and a bottle of ink on the table. "From what she's told me, the process differs slightly there, but that's irrelevant in this case."

The kitten had looked up at the word "new." Upon seeing the supplies, it turned its head to glance up at Carrion and the two exchanged bored looks. The therapist, oblivious, continued rambling.

"We simply call them inkblots. Now, what you do," Friendly explained in the excited tones of a small child, "is pour a bit of ink on a sheet of paper, fold the paper down the middle, then unfold it and look at the picture you made!" He gave man and cat a spotlight grin. "Won't that be _fun_?"

The tarrie's whiskers twitched as though it was suppressing a snicker. Carrion merely stared. He decided, once and for all, that Friendly was absolutely, without a doubt, stark-raving mad. And Candy probably was, too. He was starting to think that the blasted kitten was the only sane one, which caused serious doubts about his _own_ sanity (or lack thereof). Islanders had been saying the Lord of Midnight was crazy for years, but hearing the rumors and wondering if they were accurate were two very different things.

"All right. I'll show you how it's done first, then you can do some!" said the therapist, jerking Carrion out of his musings. Taking a sheet of paper, Friendly poured a thin, curvy line of ink down the center and added a few splotches to either side. Almost trembling with excitement, he folded the paper and gently pressed the two sides together. After a few seconds, he peeled the sides apart so the inkblot was displayed in all its glory. "Isn't that just _amazing_?"

"It's a black stain."

"Oh, come now!" Friendly chided him. "You have to use your _imagination_! What do you see here?"

Carrion studied the paper with a look of intense concentration. The therapist was almost wriggling with anticipation. Carrion nodded decisively. "A black stain." At the other man's crestfallen look, he sighed. "Fine. That squiggle in the middle is a tortured creature writhing in pain. The blotches off to the sides are…little spheres of flame being hurled at it. Very painful, I'm sure."

The therapist, eyes wide, snatched his pad and began scribbling madly. Carrion smirked, glancing down at the kitten that was looking at him with interest.

"I think I frightened him," he commented with mock concern.

And Carrion could've sworn that the kitten smirked back.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Five inkblots and five very Carrion-esque interpretations later, the little patience that the Prince of Gorgossium had was wearing thin. When Friendly pushed the sixth piece of paper at him, he snatched up the ink bottle and poured out the entire thing. The therapist gave a start forward as if to stop him, but it was too late, and he subsided with a sad little mutter about how expensive bottles of permanent ink were getting these days. Carrion ignored this and, when folding the paper, took meticulous care in making sure that the ink completely covered it (and in avoiding getting any of the stuff on his fingers). Really, this was rather unnecessary, as the ink had spread out over a distance almost three times that of the paper. When it was unfolded, the paper was solid black.

"And what do you see in _this_?" Friendly sounded a bit wary by now, as one ought to be when dealing with the one and only Christopher Carrion.

About to shoot off some nonsense about torture and death, Carrion stopped. The blackness, glistening in some places from still-wet ink, brought his island to mind. He felt an unexpected twinge of homesickness.

"The Midnight sky," he muttered quietly to himself.

"What was that?" Friendly's voice shattered the moment.

"A desolate ruin of horror and despair," Carrion snapped. "You've been here for an hour and I can't handle any more of you without breaking something, preferably your neck. _Leave_."

The therapist tried to protest, but Carrion was adamant. Finally, the Lord of Midnight put the cat on the table, stood up, and told the man in no uncertain terms that either he would _walk_ out or he would be _thrown_ out.

Friendly gulped nervously. "Well, I suppose since we've run out of ink…" He stuffed the remaining paper back in his bag. Really, with an irate Christopher Carrion looming over him, it wasn't that hard of a decision to make.

Carrion followed him to the door, making absolutely sure that he left. The lock clicked, and Carrion allowed himself a tiny smile. Hopefully he'd never see the therapist again. _Ever_. Even That Thing was better. At least it couldn't speak. Or smile. Carrion suppressed a shudder at the memory of that horrible sight. But speaking of the cat…

A plaintive mew summoned Carrion back to the kitchen to help the tarrie get off the table. He let out a quiet but furious hiss at the sight before him.

The kitten, which had been purposefully set down on an ink-free corner of the table, was clearly not as intelligent as Carrion had hoped. The blasted thing was standing in the middle of a black pool, periodically lifting and shaking its paws, and its movements had caused some of the ink to spread further and start dripping off the table. There were also random spatters of ink all over the kitchen from the paw-shaking. It was trying to reach the edge of the ink lake, but the feeling of liquid underpaw was loathsome, and the ink continued to spread.

"Ten seconds," Carrion forced out through gritted teeth. "Just _ten seconds_ without supervision…"

The kitten gave him an apologetic look.

"And how," Carrion asked with a dark glare, "am I supposed to clean up this _mess_?"

The kitten's gaze switched to a pleading one.

Refusing to dignify the endearing expression used by all small, adorable critters to get their way with a response, Carrion wordlessly stalked forward, grabbed the kitten, and dropped it about a foot from the floor. Immediately it galloped away, accidentally splashing through a small puddle of ink on the way.

In approximately two seconds, Christopher Carrion realized he had made yet another grievous mistake.

When one has an ink pad and a paw print stamp, one can make cute little paw prints in any color or colors desired all over a piece of paper to liven it up. When one has a puddle of black ink and a small animal with paws, one can make a horrible mess. The author must here interject that it is unadvisable to attempt the latter, as the Prince of Gorgossium learned the hard way.

As the ink continued to drip over the table edge, Carrion stared at the floor. A trail of black paw prints led from the kitchen to the couch. And hadn't the therapist mentioned something about it being a permanent type of ink…?

Needless to say, Carrion was ticked.

He stalked to the sink and rapped on the mirror above it. "_How_," he asked in a tightly controlled voice, "is this going to be cleaned up?"

When Candy arrived five minutes later with a bucket, soap, a scrub brush, Commexo Carpet Cleaner, a rag for a towel, and an unholy grin, Carrion rather wished he hadn't asked. In fact, he came very close to spontaneously combusting and taking the entire archipelago with him.

It was _not_ a good day for Christopher Carrion.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_She stood there with her _**(censored)**_ bucket of _**(censored) **_cleaning supplies, _smirking_ at me, and I was forced to clean this place like a _**(censored) (censored)**_ slave!_

_That_**(censored) (censored) (censored) **_Thing and that _**(censored) (censored) (censored) **_excuse for a therapist and that _**(censored)**_ girl are going to _die_. I will skin them alive! I will make it last for _days_! I will slowly lower them _inch _by _inch_ into vats of _acid_ until they scream and weep and _beg_ for mercy and I will _**(censored) **_well _enjoy_ it!_

(The remainder of this entry has been omitted due to inappropriate content. Your understanding is greatly appreciated. Thank you.)


	6. Ch 5: In Which a Letter Arrives

Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

**Spoilers: **Abarat Books 1 and 2, of course. Not many specifics, but anything's possible.

**Warnings and Pairings: **Erm. It's a bit shorter perhaps, and there's not as much going on – mostly info and kitty interaction. Yeah. Nothin' really new here…

**Notes: **I may be lazy, but I won't abandon CCTA! Okay, note on the swearing thing coz several people have mentioned it. I, personally, don't expect to see Carrion swearing at anyone in the series. In private, maybe, but not in print. However, this isn't this series, I have artistic license, and Carrion isn't allowed to 1) do magic, 2) break things, or 3) kill the tarrie. Language is an outlet (if a crude one) for stress, and therefore swearing is actually helpful in that he's less likely to hurt the kitty. …Plus, I have fun with it. (smirk) Oh, and on our furry friend's name: you won't see it for a loooong time story-wise. (Hopefully not quite so long in real-time.) Finally, I love all you reviewers! You people crack me up and make my day, so here's another chapter for ya!

* * *

Chapter Five: In Which a Letter Arrives and Crickets are Flicked

**Journal Entry Five: Day 7**

_I am finally beginning to recover from that demented excuse for a therapist. That Thing and I have returned to ignoring each other, and no blood has been spilt on either side recently, but I believe it's plotting something. Surely a little Thing like That could not possibly sleep so many hours in a day! In the event that it might be up and about while I sleep, I have become accustomed to taking short naps of an hour or so, never settling into a fixed pattern. So far this strategy appears to be working._

_**-.-.-.-**_

Here Carrion paused to eye the young cat suspiciously. It was curled up in its favorite couch corner, napping peacefully (plotting?). It seemed to sense Carrion's scrutiny, and opened one liquid amber eye.

Carrion glowered fiercely. The kitten closed its eye, knowing all was right with the world. The man entertained no such illusions, but even he was feeling slightly more relaxed and in a better mood. After all, it was the seventh day of living with an insane animal, meaning almost a fourth of the required time had passed. Carrion was intent on it continuing to be a peaceful day – sort of a truce. For the first time, he was catching a glimpse of the light at the end of the tunnel, and he just wanted to enjoy it.

And yet, once again, his thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door disturbingly reminiscent of a death knell.

Carrion barely suppressed a groan. Any knock outside of the appointed mealtimes meant trouble, which was the last thing he wanted. Resigned, the former Lord of Midnight rose from his chair to meet the visitor.

Just as he entered the kitchen, the door opened and two familiar figures walked in. One was a guard (who, actually, may or may not have been familiar, as they all looked the same to Carrion) and the other was the veterinarian.

Carrion felt immediately confused, since the vet only came when the cat might have been injured, and defensive, because he hadn't _done_ anything! Adding a dash of surprise to the mix, Tev actually paused long enough to greet Carrion in his brisk manner.

"Afternoon," he said, pleasantly enough, with a brief nod of acknowledgment. Before Carrion could formulate a response, the vet, who by now knew the kitten's favored place on the couch, was already gone. Instead, Carrion focused a suspicious frown on the guard.

"He is here because…?" It was clear that the guard was expected to fill in the rest.

"In the letter," was the short and unenlightening response as the guard set a tray down on the kitchen table. An envelope rested on the side closest to Carrion. The rest was covered in crickets.

"I already have dead insects," Carrion pointed out crossly. Over the past few days he'd been supplied with a variety of them, though crickets remained the kitten's favorite, and had just requested more yesterday.

"In the letter," repeated the guard.

Tev returned in time to catch Carrion's disgusted 'you-expect-me-to-pick-up-a-letter-immersed-in-_deceased_-_crickets_?' look. "Well," he commented blandly, "you already change the kit's litter. This won't be too difficult for you."

Carrion shot a hateful glare at him, refusing to even dignify such a comment with a response, and decided that (respect or not) he would have to kill the vet when he was finally released.

Tev, who was apparently the only inhabitant in all of the Abarat _or_ the Hereafter who could ignore such a look from Carrion, continued. "The little one's fine and healthy. Somehow you're doin' _some_thing right." He paused to fix Carrion with a warning glare of his own. "And that had better not change!" With that final word, Tev nodded again in farewell and swept out. The guard gladly followed him, and the lock clicked quietly.

For a moment, Carrion simply stood there feeling clueless, which in turn made him feel quite aggravated. The best course of action, he decided, was to read the letter. Gingerly, he picked it up by one corner and sat down to open it. The handwriting was familiar… He skipped to the signature at the bottom – Candy's. Carrion pushed away a host of unpleasant memories and started to read.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_Dear Mr. Carrion,_

(Here Carrion snorted irritably.)

_Congratulations on making it through one week. You are commended on your basic care of the cat, but your interactions with him are anywhere from sadly lacking to downright dangerous. They must improve. Please continue to use the journal and do consider giving the cat a name._

(Evaluation over, her writing took on a more personal tone.)

_Honestly, I'm impressed you've done so well so far – at least, compared to our expectations. (I must confess that I've collected a great deal from friends and colleagues who doubted your ability to be civil.) Again, congratulations._

(Here Carrion scowled. The idea that there was a betting pool centered on him was extraordinarily annoying. Although, he reflected, it might be interesting to see who placed what wagers. He could see to it that Hob lost every penny…)

_In any case, you ought to know that you'll receive a similar letter every week until you are either released or imprisoned again. Dr. Cerra (whom you know as Tev) will come at the same time in order to give the cat a routine examination. In addition, Jimothi wishes me to pass on further instructions for caring for the kitten._

(Here Carrion frowned sullenly, wishing they would stop using the phrase "caring for" when it could be so easily misconstrued! He was _taking care of_ That Thing, not _caring for_ it.)

_With the crickets delivered to you, you should begin to simulate the motion of the tarrie-cat's future prey. This is in order to prepare him for the live prey that will be introduced to him later on._

(Here Carrion's eyes widened with shocked horror. Simulating _motion_? _Live prey?_ What in the name of Midnight…!)

_Finally, Dr. Friendly will continue to visit for your therapy and anger management sessions every five days. Thank you very much for your continued cooperation._

_Yours sincerely,  
Candy Quackenbush_

_**-.-.-.-**_

If Carrion's eyes were wide before, they were as large and round as dinner plates now. (Normally, he did not tolerate such extreme, emotional reactions, particularly from himself, but wide eyes were better than cowering in the bedroom's small closet, finally cracking and breaking out in tears, or just plain screaming in sheer horror.) Every. Five. Days. That meant _five more visits_ from that insane_ lunatic_. A lesser man would have at least screamed and sobbed for a good hour.

But Christopher Carrion, Lord of Midnight, Prince of Darkness, Master of Gorgossium, etc. etc. etc., was no such man. With impressive strength of will, he slowly exhaled, forcing himself to calm down, and with remarkable composure he gently set the letter down on the table.

As if sensing the turmoil and devastation wrought by Candy's letter, the kitten padded into the kitchen. Carrion favored it with a wrathful glare. "Well, you'll be pleased," he snarled. "I'm sure you _enjoyed_ that disgustingly worshipful imbecile fawning all over you, clinging like a leech. You'll be quite pleased indeed to know he'll return to smother you with his sycophancy."

At that point, Carrion realized he was talking to a kitten. A tarrie-kitten, perhaps, but a kitten none the less. Swearing at it was one thing – people can curse inanimate objects till they're blue in the face without feeling the slightest bit self-conscious – but actually talking as if the animal could respond was a bit much. Disgusted with himself, Carrion decided he'd been locked up for too long and stood to get a glass of water. Once he'd returned to rational thinking, he could put his mind to figuring out the "simulate motion" part of Candy's letter.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The kitten focused intently on Snarl's words. Snarl never spoke nicely to him like that (well, all right, the tone was still rather scathing) so it was clearly a matter of great importance. Most of it went right over his young head, like that "siko" word, but he caught "pleased," "leech," and "return" for sure. The kitten thought hard about this while Snarl drank water, trying to fit together the words into a coherent idea.

Hmm… Snarl definitely didn't sound pleased, even if he said it. So it must be something bad, whatever it was…

Suddenly, it hit him.

The tarrie-cat sat down, hard. The Freaky-Man-who-Clings-like-a-Leech was coming back! And- and Leech would grab him again! And _hug_ him and _pet_ him and _coo_ at him and oh Lordy Lou what was he going to _do_?

A sharp clunk jolted him out of the panic he was working himself into. Startled, he looked up at Snarl, who'd just set his water down on the table rather hard. Snarl snapped something irritably ("Stop shaking, you idiot Thing!") and suddenly the kitten had a brilliant revelation.

It was so obvious, so clearly logical, that he couldn't see why it hadn't occurred to him sooner. Snarl hated Leech. That was so blatantly obvious a newborn could see it. Well, all he had to do to avoid Leech was stick close to Snarl! Leech wouldn't dare come near Snarl – Snarl would scratch his eyes out!

Feeling quite pleased with himself for figuring all that out, the kitten sauntered over to his food dish for a celebratory snack.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion glowered darkly at the happily eating tarrie. That Thing looked so smug that Carrion wouldn't have been surprised if it knew Friendly was returning and looked forward to Carrion's future torment. Quickly putting all thoughts of the therapist out of his mind, the Lord of Midnight focused on the crickets.

"Simulate the motion of future live prey," he repeated, torn between anger, disgust, and disbelief. Finally, he decided any one of the emotions was exhausting in itself, and settled on resignation instead.

After a few more minutes of staring at the dead bugs, Carrion settled on a possible idea. He wasn't sure if it was what Jimothi was looking for, and, quite frankly, didn't care. He also really wasn't looking forward to it, and therefore decided to get it over with as soon as possible. Carrion set down his glass, pulled a chair away from the table, and turned it to face the kitten. He picked up the tray of crickets and sat down.

"You. Cat. Turn around and pay attention," he ordered.

Surprised to be addressed twice in the same day, the kitten obliged. Carrion, with a vague hint of disgust creeping into the resignation, flicked a cricket off the tray.

The body traveled quite well, arcing toward the kitten, who instinctively batted it out of the air. It was then sniffed and, accordingly, eaten. The kitten looked up, hoping for another.

It was not disappointed, as Carrion flicked a second cricket toward it. He had decided that this activity called for the least amount of bodily contact between himself and the insects, which were Vol's forte – not Carrion's. It seemed to be acceptable to the kitten, and he decided that would have to be good enough for Candy and Jimothi.

As Carrion continued flicking crickets, the kitten started to really get into it, obviously enjoying itself. It started jumping into the air to grab the cricket carcasses in its mouth. Soon it began attempting ever more intricate leaps, trying to outdo the last one. The tarrie was proving to be very agile.

To make it harder on the little creature, Carrion started aiming the insects higher or lower, nearer or farther, or off to one side. To his surprise, the kitten took on the challenge eagerly. This continued for several minutes, with Carrion devising increasingly difficult cricket-flicks and the cat making spectacular catches, until Carrion realized something. First, he was no longer trying to get the kitten to fail. Instead, he was _rooting_ for it! Second, he was amused by the kitten's creativity! Not cruelly amused when it failed, but genuinely amused at its antics and enjoying what had turned from loathsome duty to– to almost a _game_! There was even a vague half-smile on his face! (Or rather, there had been, because now he was scowling irately at himself for being such a complete fool.)

_**-.-.-.-**_

Finnegan Hob had finally been persuaded to take on the job of Carrion-watching. He'd previously been torn between the desire to keep as far away as possible from the slimy murderer (lest he do something rash, such as strangling him) and watching his enemy's torment. To Candy's delight, he'd eventually caved, and the two of them happened to be sitting behind the kitchen mirror when Carrion received the letter and began flicking crickets.

Candy found the situation in general to be quite amusing, but Finnegan's utter shock at Carrion's expression (_"He's smiling at a cat!"_) really took the cake.

"See?" Candy said happily. "I told you it would work."

_**-.-.-.-**_

Completely and utterly disgusted with himself and furious with That cursed Thing, Carrion stood sharply and dumped the remaining crickets on the confused kitten's head. He then proceeded to stalk back to the living room and reclaim his armchair with a scowl.

…And no, he was _not_ sulking. Christopher Carrion, Lord of Midnight, Prince of Darkness, Master of Gorgossium, etc. etc. etc., does not _sulk_. Nor does he play with kittens, nor is he _amused_ by said kittens, and nor does he even remotely _like_ said kittens.

The scowl intensified. This blasted place was getting to him. And with twenty-three days left…! He'd probably be a gibbering lunatic by the time they let him out.

…Still not sulking. Just making sure that's clear. _Perhaps I should just drown myself in the sink, _Carrion brooded darkly, not for the first time. However, after thinking on it a bit more, Carrion decided that that must be exactly what they _wanted_ him to do. There would be no long-term imprisonment, no messy execution, and no ruler of Midnight if the man in question went and offed himself.

With new resolve to throw his enemies' plan right back in their faces, Carrion started to feel a bit better and decided that the entire Cricket Incident could be attributed to a bout of temporary insanity brought on by Candy's infernal letter and the thought of enduring more "therapy." Then, putting a serious damper on his improved mood, came the dreaded weight on his foot.

Quite irked, Carrion jerked the appendage in question sharply, without bothering to look down, and the weight disappeared. There was a slight pause…and the weight returned. Frowning with annoyance, he repeated the motion. Again there came a pause…and again the weight returned.

Carrion leaned over to glower down at the weight. The kitten looked back up, eyes innocently pleading. Carrion started to kick the Thing off, but the terms of his rehabilitation stopped him. Instead he began to simply unbalance it as he had done before, but was again stopped.

This time, it was the unbidden images of Candy and Tev that did it. Carrion was getting awfully sick of all the "agains," and was not happy _at all_ to find that the new image of a tarrie-kitten happily bounding about the kitchen had joined them. That was just a little too much. He accepted defeat.

"All right," he growled (with incredible self-control, all things considered). "What do you _want_?"

The kitten blinked.

Carrion mentally slapped himself for (_again_) talking as though That Thing could understand and respond. Well, perhaps it wanted food, though how that was possible after all those crickets he did _not_ know. Carrion stood up, resigned to returning to the kitchen and dishing out more food.

The kitten didn't move.

Carrion sat back down, now rather confused as well as annoyed. If the tarrie wanted or needed something, it signaled this by perching on Carrion's foot until he guessed correctly what that want or need was. Wondering what else That Thing could possibly want, he leaned forward once more, resting his elbows on his knees. "_What?_"

The kitten stared back. The intensity in its gaze was unusual for one so young; it was clearly trying to get an important message across. Once it was sure it had Carrion's full and undivided attention, the kitten relaxed a bit and blinked gratefully at the man who'd played with him.

Then, quite familiar with Carrion's dislike for physical contact, it stepped off of his foot and jumped up onto the couch. Worn out by leaping after crickets, it was snoozing contentedly in moments.

Now, Jimothi, Tev, and even Candy would have easily interpreted the cat's expression as "thank you very much for the game" and would have responded with "you're quite welcome; it was my pleasure" accordingly. Christopher Carrion, however, either could not or would not see that. It's a sad fact, but some people are stubborn that way – a personality trait which Carrion has in great abundance.

He glared at the sleeping kitten. "I loathe you," he hissed viciously.

And the kitten rested easier for it, knowing all was right with the world.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_Words cannot express my utter hatred. That Thing first tries to lure me into a false sense of security with its jumping and catching, then attempts some sort of tarrie-cat mind control on me. Such intensity is simply not normal. I am, of course, far too powerful mentally and magically to fall under such an attack, but that it even dared to try shows its increasing confidence._

_I expect That Thing will drop its innocent act soon enough._

_I will be ready when it does._

…

_(Incidentally, I plan also to be ready for when the insane therapist returns. I will not allow his lunacy to infect me, as I am sure my enemies plan it to. I can almost bring myself to feel pity for the fool…)_


	7. Ch 6: In Which Carrion has Issues

Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

**Spoilers: **If you don't know the potential spoilers yet, go back to the prologue and read them six or seven times. 'Kay? Good.

**Warnings and Pairings: **Eh, general warning for continued insanity and scary therapists. A brief bit or two can be interpreted as leaning toward slight Candy/Carrion if you wish.

**Notes: **A thousand apologies for my laziness! I humbly bow to all of you who continue to follow CCTA. Your patience is far greater than my own, I believe. Hopefully you'll have fun with this (_finally!_) update. I know our dear Carrion will, seeing as I did anger management research especially for him. (snigger) The websites which I have pulled quotes from are listed in my bio, to give credit where credit is due. And I later realized that I inadvertently implied that the writers of these articles are insane. I mean no offense!

**This Chapter Dedicated To…**everyone who's kept reading and reviewing, but especially to Kendra Martin for making me feel simultaneously very very guilty and very very flattered. Thanks to her for finally getting me motivated again. Enjoy, my friends!

* * *

Chapter Six: In Which Carrion has Issues with Anger and Ink

**Journal Entry Seven: Day 10**

_Despite having only two and a half days to prepare for That Idiot's arrival, I have compiled my notes and ideas into a viable – in fact, brilliant – plan of attack. The Girl and That Idiot won't know what hit them._

_As much as it would be appropriate to gloat for a while over this accomplishment, the one key element of my plot must first be achieved. It will be a most loathsome and debasing process, but a key one nonetheless. Fate is a cruel thing, one which often laughs in the faces of mere mortals…_

_**-.-.-.-**_

Christopher Carrion stared at the words, dark ink stark against pale paper, and grimaced. Having it down in writing brought home the realization that he really was stooping lower than he had in a long time – perhaps ever – for help. Deciding that it could be put off no longer, Carrion shut the journal, set it aside, and stood. He stalked over to the couch, trying to retain as much dignity as possible, and said in commanding tones, "Cat."

The kitten looked up from its place on the arm of the couch (where it was having its early afternoon wash) with a quizzical expression.

"I understand perfectly that you were put here in order to either murder me or drive me insane," Carrion stated in his best superior and intimidating royalty voice, something every ruler cultivated. "I hope you understand equally clearly that _I _only refrain from killing _you_ in order to _preserve_ my life and sanity. However, it has become apparent to me that the insane therapist is a greater threat to both of us. In light of this shared danger, I wish to propose a temporary alliance, the terms of which are as follows: on every fifth day, during the duration of Friendly's presence here, neither of us will attempt to harm the other. Instead, we will work – _together_," he managed to choke out, "to drive away That Idiot, or at least prevent him from attacking either of us, and protect each other from his dire influence." Carrion paused to see if the kitten followed this. "What say you?"

_**-.-.-.-**_

The kitten, frankly, was amazed. Only twice before had he heard Snarl speak for so long. The first time had been after he'd eaten that delicious fruit, and the second after the Nice Girl had brought in the water and nasty-smelling liquid and stuff to clean away Leech's ink. (He still felt pretty bad about causing so much work for Snarl, but when he'd tried to help out Snarl had gotten even more upset.) On both occasions, Snarl had been particularly enraged, but now his tone, though stiffly formal, was _civil_.

Through his understandable surprise, the kitten focused on Snarl's speech with single-minded intensity. Luckily for him, Snarl had recently begun muttering aloud to himself when distracted, and careful study of these slip-ups allowed the tarrie-kit to interpret much of what Snarl said now.

After giving up on the long, complicated words and listening instead for the ones he knew and the nuances to Snarl's voice, the meaning of it all was so simple and un-Snarl-like that the kit was dumbstruck.

It was a message he'd often seen exchanged between his siblings when they were all younger – basically, I know we fought and I really don't wanna embarrass myself by asking for _your_ help, but sister's annoying us both and I think we should team up for a little while to get back at her.

So stunned was the kit by this sudden understanding of Snarl on the same level as his brothers and sisters that he almost missed the cue for his response. Snarl had gone quiet, a tense, expectant set to his shoulders, and the kit knew he was waiting for an answer.

_**-.-.-.-**_

To Carrion's utter surprise, the tarrie let out a loud, pleased purr. It looked almost…thrilled. Carrion deftly sidestepped both the possible implications of this reaction and the sudden thought that he was _talking to That cursed Thing like it understood again_, and instead nodded sharply before launching into a succinct explanation of what the cat was supposed to do today – mostly, stay out of the way unless cued. There was some extra stuff too, but nothing complicated. The complicated stuff would come when and if Carrion was certain he could rely on the animal to carry out orders.

The kitten listened avidly, and, as the Lord of Midnight concluded the brief outline of his plot, he wondered whether it could understand after all.

…And if it could, Lordy Lou was that Friendly in for a shock!

He smirked at the thought, and man and tarrie exchanged smugly confident glances. With a devious kitten and the Prince of Darkness himself working in tandem, what could stand in their way?

Someone knocked on the door. Their enemy had arrived.

Carrion and the cat stalked into the kitchen to meet him.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Candy ran into the station behind the kitchen mirror. "Haven't missed anything, have I?"

"No. Doctor Friendly has yet to arrive," Jimothi answered.

"Are Malingo and Deaux-Deaux coming over?" she asked, settling down between Jimothi and Finnegan (who was also there to watch the entertainment).

"Of course! Too bad we couldn't convince Geneva and Mischief to come along. Wouldn't miss _this_ for all the Abarat!" a cheerful voice replied – Deaux-Deaux, followed by Malingo.

"Although you missed something very interesting," the geshrat added. At three questioning looks from his friends, he obligingly elaborated. "Well you remember Deaux-Deaux and I were scheduled to keep an eye on our guest at the living room station this morning, and we saw something very - unusual."

"Do tell," Finnegan drawled.

Malingo grinned. "The former Prince of Midnight was talking to the cat."

Three identical expressions of disbelief spread across the faces of Candy, Jimothi, and Hob. Deaux-Deaux and Malingo exchanged smug looks. It had quickly become a common pastime for all those involved with Carrion's "rehabilitation" to exchange the latest tales of Carrion's trials. After the first few days, a prize system had been set up for awarding the most interesting anecdotes. (This was the reason why nobody wanted to take shifts behind the bedroom mirror; all the interesting stuff happened in the kitchen or living room.) Anyway, if it weren't for the fact that the therapist might provide even more amusing stories, the geshrat and the Sea-Skipper were certain they'd have easily had the best one of the day.

"You're joking," Finnegan insisted,

"Not at all," Deaux-Deaux retorted. "He stood there and talked at it, waited for it to respond, and kept talking! Like they were having a conversation!"

While the four male occupants of the room discussed this strange, inexplicable phenomenon, Candy smiled quietly to herself. Maybe her rehab plan could work after all…

Then they faintly heard a knock on the door to Carrion's quarters, and all five of them quickly turned to the kitchen mirror in eager anticipation of the entertainment sure to come.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion stalked imperiously into the hall, signaling to the kitten with the flick of a wrist that it was to remain in the kitchen for the moment. He waited for the knock to sound again before calling out boredly, "Enter."

The door swung open and Carrion had to resist the impulse to shade his eyes against the neon brightness of Friendly's grin. The therapist looked just the same as he had during their first encounter, although this time he wore a shirt of cheerful, sunny yellow, and it immediately put Carrion in a vindictive mood. He _hated_ cheerful, sunny yellow.

"Good afternoon, Mister Carrion!" Friendly said brightly.

"It is certainly not 'good' as long as I am cursed by your presence," Carrion responded politely. "Additionally, I believe we have already discussed the fact that you may not, under any circumstances, refer to me as 'Mister' Carrion."

"Christopher it is then!" Friendly said cheerfully, sounding thrilled. "Or perhaps Chris? And you, of course, may call me Barney. I do cherish being on first-names terms with my patients! Otherwise it's so horribly formal and just not friendly at-"

"_Absolutely not_," Carrion growled, the use of his first name effectively ruining his calm exterior. A sharp movement of one hand beckoned the tarrie. He couldn't afford to be caught up in fury just yet, and needed a distraction to compose himself.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The kitten trotted innocently into the hall at Snarl's summons, wearing the sweet and adorable oh-I'm-so-irresistibly-small-and-cute-and-helpless look used by young animals everywhere to get their way or disarm their enemies.

He heard Leech squeal with joy and cringed. Ooh, Snarl had better be able to pull off his plan or-

His thoughts (and air) were cut off when Leech swept him into a crushing embrace. Horror threatened to overwhelm him, but he clung to the memory of Snarl's earlier crisp, calm tones until he was back in Devious Revenge Mode instead of Total Panic Mode. He twisted his neck painfully around till he could see Snarl. The man nodded.

The kitten smirked back, then followed Snarl's previously issued instructions and went into Fake Total Panic Mode. First, he let out a shrill, piercing yowl. Leech's grip loosened in surprise, and the kitten began clawing, biting, yowling, and writhing like an eel simultaneously.

It was a great deal of fun.

Leech yelped in shocked pain and dropped him, and the tarrie galloped across the hall to hide behind Snarl. Leech looked sadly at his bleeding hands, and Snarl gave him a smug nod of approval. The kitten's chest swelled with pride.

_**-.-.-.-**_

A sense of triumph soothed Carrion's fury to a manageable level, and he eyed the therapist's bloody hands with a certain sadistic pleasure, considering it payment for the raw condition of his own hands after a good hour or more spent scrubbing that thrice-cursed ink away.

"Dear me," Carrion murmured, not bothering to hide a smirk. "It seems That Thing has no interest in your fawning attention. Perhaps we should adjourn to the kitchen?"

That said, Christopher Carrion, Lord of Midnight, Prince of Darkness, Master of Gorgossium, etc. etc. etc., reached down, picked up the kitten by the scruff of its neck, settled it in the crook of his arm, and walked – almost strolled – into the kitchen.

He tapped twice on the mirror above the sink as Friendly followed dejectedly, nursing his injuries, and suggested imperiously, "You may wish to send the vet down. My esteemed guests have had a small altercation." Carrion turned away from the mirror to indulge in a moment of smug satisfaction, then walked over to sit at the table. He'd moved the chairs earlier into strategic positions opposite each other: one faced the hall, the other faced the mirror. He sat in the chair facing the mirror and set the kitten down on the floor. It sat out of sight under the table to fastidiously lick the blood from its claws, ready and waiting for its next cue. (Carrion knew it was a risk, giving them a view of his face instead of merely the back of his head, but having Friendly's back to the mirror was more important.) The shell-shocked therapist took the other seat absently, still staring in disbelief at the injuries caused by the fuzzy li'l kitty.

Carrion glanced at the floor, meeting the tarrie's amber eyes, and the allies nodded at each other.

Thus far, all was going according to plan.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Behind the mirror, there was an atmosphere of lingering surprise. Because there wasn't a wall dividing the kitchen from the hall, the group had been awarded a perfect view of the dramatic battle between the kitten and the therapist. (Little did they realize that Carrion had studied the line of sight from the mirror just to make sure they would, and had accordingly set the stage to get Friendly in the best possible viewing position.)

"The kitten attacked the therapist…" Jimothi said bemusedly, unaware that his young charge could be so vicious without apparent provocation.

"…But it let _Carrion_ pick it up," Deaux-Deaux finished, sounding incredulous. "And hold it!"

Malingo shook his head wordlessly, and Finnegan looked stunned into silent immobility. Even Candy was clearly surprised, though she was the only one who was smiling.

"Guess we'd better call Tev up here before Doctor Friendly loses too much blood," she said lightly, pressing a blue button on the small console under the mirror, and nodded to herself.

Thus far, all was going according to plan.

_**-.-.-.-**_

It was silent in the kitchen.

Carrion counted the passing seconds absently. Even he hadn't anticipated the complete lack of response from Friendly. The man looked forlorn, betrayed… It was a sight far more disgusting than a plate of crickets, but it meant that Carrion had guessed even more accurately than he'd hoped. The kitten could easily be the therapist's weakest spot.

The Prince of Darkness allowed himself the time to gloat inwardly, but it was a cautious gloating. Carrion had learned early on that sensible people don't gloat until all is said and done, for even the most perfect plans (read: even Carrion's plans) can't take into account every possibility and can end up hinging on the least-suspected, most trivial detail.

"How are you feeling, hm?" he asked in falsely solicitous tones, finally breaking the silence.

Friendly heaved a despondent sigh.

Carrion quirked an eyebrow and gave up on getting a response from the therapist. He was rescued from potential boredom by a brisk rap on the door. Carrion and the cat exchanged knowing looks. Both of them had become expert at identifying visitors by the knock, and this was Tev's. Carrion nodded slightly and the kitten trotted happily off to greet the vet, who strode into the kitchen a moment later.

"Afternoon, vet," Carrion drawled without turning. In light of his first triumph since being locked up after the war, he was feeling almost – well – _friendly_. Carrion smirked.

"Afternoon," Tev replied without missing a beat, pausing a few feet from the table and narrowing his eyes first at the therapist's bloody hands, then at Carrion (who held up blameless scratch-free ones), and finally at the smug-looking kitten. "Well, that's new," he muttered with an inquiring glance at Carrion (prompting an innocent shrug which Tev scoffed disbelievingly at) before turning to address Friendly in his typical brusque manner. "What'd you do to the kit?"

Tev's direct nature finally did the trick and produced a response.

"I did nothing!" the therapist whispered brokenly, staring at his hands in something liked pained disbelief. (Carrion wondered with a detached curiosity whether he was coming out of a state of real shock.) "I merely…greeted him."

Here the tarrie interjected with a sarcastic mew.

Tev turned a disapproving look on him. "Be polite." The disapproving look shifted to Carrion. "You're rubbing off on him. He's an impressionable young kit and you oughta watch your behavior more carefully."

Carrion pasted an expression of bemused how-could-you-possibly-accuse-_me_ innocence on his face. Tev rolled his dark eyes in an expressive response to the idea that the Lord of Midnight could be _innocent_, controlling a sudden urge to laugh as he stooped to give the tarrie a quick examination. For, though he almost certainly didn't realize it, Carrion's newly minted innocent look was a close imitation of the kitten's.

"Now then," the vet continued, patting the cat on the head and standing upright, "how deep are those scratches, Doctor?"

"Very deep," Friendly murmured despairingly, staring at his hands in something like aggrieved incredulity. "The wounds on my heart may bleed eternally."

Tev pursed his lips, looking mildly annoyed. Needless theatrics grated on his practical nature as much as they did Carrion's unsympathetic one. "I mean your injured _hands_, Doctor, not your injured_ feelings_. There's no need for such melodrama." To himself, he muttered, "Yet another reason why I am a doctor of animals and not people."

Friendly was still staring blankly, but at least now he was staring blankly in Tev's general direction. The vet heaved an exasperated sigh, plunked his worn brown case down on the table, and pulled out the supplies Carrion had become all too familiar with – soap, bandages, towel, and antiseptic cream. He and the kitten settled back to watch the show while the vet tried to clean and bandage the therapist's injuries. (This was somewhat difficult, as Friendly came to life at the first contact of water on skin and immediately began dancing and wriggling with pain, his erratic movements punctuated with exclamations such as "ooh" and "eep" and "ack.")

It was with a look of distaste that Tev none-too-gently shoved the shorter man into his chair and began swiftly applying cream and bandages to the (lightly) wounded hands. The entire process done in less than three minutes, Tev quickly packed up, snapped his case shut, and headed for the door. Halfway there, he stopped and faced Carrion.

"I don't like to say it – Hereafter only knows your ego doesn't need inflating – but quite frankly I much prefer you as a patient if I must treat humans than _that_ idiot. You, at least, remain silent."

"I am flattered," Carrion replied, only the barest hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice. "Unless it's really only because I'm the one you can blackmail? Yes, I_ am_ touched."

This time a quiet huff of laughter escaped the vet. "Don't let it go to your head," he retorted with an almost-smile, then rubbed the tarrie behind the ears and strode out the door.

_**-.-.-.-**_

"Are you…certain that this therapist has the…well, credentials and experience to handle Carrion?" Jimothi asked Candy hesitantly.

"Trust me," the girl responded, the picture of bland innocence, "he's just what our guest needs."

Jimothi sighed and murmured under his breath, "Perhaps. Though I notice you didn't actually answer my question.

Candy favored him with an oddly Carrion-esque smile and remained silent.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The absence of pain and blood from his hands appeared to have restored Friendly's good humor. Carrion, though disappointed, was unsurprised when the man began to launch into an enthusiastic explanation of the session's activities. The Lord of Gorgossium interrupted almost before he could begin.

"Excuse me," he said smoothly, "but may I get a glass of water?"

So taken aback by Carrion's almost_ polite_ tone was the therapist that he merely nodded soundlessly. Carrion stood, nodded slightly to an inquiring look from the kitten, and walked to the sink. As he filled a glass with ice cold water, Friendly began digging through his hideous bag (somehow he'd had the presence of mind to bring it in despite his injuries). Carrion turned off the water, turned around, and turned the glass upside-down over Friendly's head.

"Dear me. My apologies. I tripped," Carrion said, polite tone masking the desire to laugh maniacally at the soaked therapist.

"Oh, it's quite all right," Friendly reassured him, wiping water away from his eyes. "Have you a towel or cloth of some sort?"

"No, I'm afraid not." (The towel Tev had given him over a week ago lay innocently on the bathroom sink.)

The therapist sighed, the kitten smirked, and Carrion refilled his glass.

Once again, he upended it over Friendly's already sopping wet head.

"Dear me. Tripped again," Carrion explained pleasantly.

"Quite all right," the therapist repeated, though he sounded rather unhappy about it this time, and he used the slightly less wet end of his coat to dry his face while Carrion again filled up his glass.

Just as Friendly dropped the corner of his coat, Carrion poured out the water again.

"Goodness. I _am_ clumsy today," he reflected, enjoying himself immensely (and resolutely _not_ thinking about the fact that he'd been reduced to glasses of water after years of magic and nightmares and various other sophisticated tortures).

Friendly muttered something unintelligible under his breath and the Prince of Darkness smirked.

Thrice more Carrion dumped water on the therapist. The kitten, who had to keep shifting out of the way of a growing lake of water, tried desperately not to snicker. Finally it became too much for the therapist to endure.

"Why don't you wait until later to get a drink?" Friendly suggested, staring unhappily at the water dripping from him. "If you trip so easily, you might want to consult a doctor of the physical body as well as one of the mind."

Carrion shrugged and set the glass down, one question (_how far will That Idiot let me push him?_) answered. "Might as well. I wasn't all that thirsty in the first place."

_**-.-.-.-**_

"What in all the Abarat was _that_?" Deaux-Deaux asked, looking more than a little confused.

"One of the few things he can do without repercussions," Jimothi pointed out.

"His actions don't seem to have a purpose," Finnegan speculated, continuing with a hint of hopefulness to his voice. "Do you think he's finally lost it?"

"No," said Candy decisively. "If he ever actually loses his mind, it'll be a _lot_ more dramatic – and destructive – than pouring water on people."

"Then are you sure it's wise to push him so far?" Malingo asked a little nervously.

"He's resilient," Candy answered. "If he were less adaptive, I'd be worried, but he'll get through this sane – and might even learn something in the process."

"You sound very sure of him," Finnegan commented, voice and expression carefully neutral.

"I am," was all Candy said, just as calmly as the dragon hunter. And they turned back to the mirror.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion sat down at the table. For a moment, therapist and patient merely stared at each other. Finally, despite his damp state, Friendly pulled himself together enough to give Carrion one of his trademark neon smiles. Carrion winced.

"Well, let's get on with it, shall we?" the therapist said cheerfully. "I'm beginning to get a very good idea how to help you, but I'm not quite sure of all your needs yet so I thought we might begin where we left off!" He pulled a full ream of paper (miraculously untouched by water) out of the garish bag and set it down on a dry section of the table. It was followed by two full jars of ink, one bright orange and the other pale lilac. "I thought you might like a change of color," Friendly leaned forward to say in a confidential manner, eyes twinkling as he pushed the ink jars to the middle of the table.

Carrion froze at the sight of the paper, but when Friendly brought out the bottles of brilliantly colored ink, something within him twanged like a broken harp string. Images of ink blots, ink spatters, ink paw prints, Commexo Carpet Cleaner, and Candy's grin flashed in rapid succession before his eyes, and were then drowned out by a surge of all the pent-up fury he'd been forced to contain over the past ten days. Before he knew what exactly he was doing, Carrion had leapt up (sending his abused chair floating gracefully into the entrance hall where it crashed less gracefully into the bedroom wall), grabbed the ink bottles in one hand, and thrown them at the opposite wall – all in one smooth, seamless, lightning-fast motion.

The bottles hit the wall above the mirror. Some of the ink flew outward, spattering the sink, counter, floor, and therapist, while the rest poured down the wall and began dripping down the mirror.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Behind the mirror, the five observers gaped. Even Candy had not quite anticipated such a violent reaction over two jars of ink.

"You're _certain_ we aren't pushing it?" Malingo asked.

"Well…_yes_…" Candy's reply was only slightly less sure than it had been several minutes previously.

"I hope so," Jimothi murmured, casting an anxious eye about for a sight of the kitten as streaks of orange and lilac painted thin bars on the mirror.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The scene in the kitchen was a frozen one. Friendly's brown eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets. Carrion was standing, still as a statue but for shoulders trembling faintly from a mix of remaining adrenaline, anger, and slight shock. He was also trying to puzzle out how this minor act of violence would affect his plans and where exactly his chair was.

After a few minutes, the kitten dared to let out a quiet, plaintive mew to ask if everything was all right. Carrion unconsciously nodded a yes. If he'd realized he'd not only understood the cat, but responded as well, he would've been appalled.

Luckily, he was distracted by sudden comprehension of the probable location of his chair. Carrion mechanically walked over, picked it up, and returned it to its place at the table. It wasn't broken – an astonishing feat for a chair that had been thrown about all over the kitchen and now the hall as well. He sat reluctantly back down, and this seemed to bring Friendly back to life.

He took out his notepad and, after a moment of rapid scribbling, said quietly and seriously, "Mister Carrion, I am sorry to inform you that you appear to suffer from serious anger management issues."

It took all of Christopher Carrion's considerable strength of will not to drop his head into his hands and let out a long, loud groan. His nerves were shot, his plan was shot… But no. He was Gorgossium's ruler and heir of Midnight and he was not about to allow The Girl and That Idiot to humiliate him or keep him from his rightful place. (It did not occur to him that he'd forgotten to include That Thing in his list.) So, he responded with merely a dry "Is that so?"

"Indeed it is!" Friendly answered, wide-eyed with the urgent need to help his patient heal. "Excessive, uncontrolled anger is very dangerous to one's physical and mental health. Uncontrolled anger has long-term physical and emotional effects on our body, such as injury, increased adrenalin surges, high blood pressure, and increased heart rate - possibly producing stroke - and heart attacks, in addition to intense guilt, feelings of failure, depression, constant agitation, violent rage, and possibly suicide."

"Is that so?" Carrion repeated with an air of boredom, though inwardly he was on alert. Of course! That Idiot was inadvertently telling him precisely what The Girl and her supporters expected from this torture by animal! Injury, check; constant agitation, check; and violent rage, another check. It was becoming clear now…

"You see, the angry mind is a deluded one," the therapist explained, drawing himself up and entering Patient Teaching Mode. "It exaggerates faults and unpleasant circumstances. One must accept suffering peacefully and patiently, and then unhappy thoughts cannot gain a hold in one's mind! Patience is the key!"

Carrion stared, staggered in spite of himself by this fountain of idiocy. "Anyone who accepts suffering is an imbecile," he retorted, "and I don't think I'll even start on patience."

"But patience prevents anger," Friendly argued. "Being patient means to welcome wholeheartedly whatever arises, having given up the idea that things should be other than what they are. It is always possible to be patient; there is no situation so bad that it cannot be accepted patiently, with an open, accommodating, and peaceful heart."

Carrion paused a moment to thank whatever deity existed that he hadn't actually kept a glass of water to drink. He'd have choked on it. "You're quoting that from someone as insane as you are."

"If we practice the patience of voluntarily accepting suffering, we can maintain a peaceful mind even when experiencing suffering and pain," Friendly continued, ignoring Carrion's unkind (if true) statement.

"Do tell me," Carrion said through gritted teeth, "why I should accept suffering, particularly suffering through confinement with That blasted Thing for another three weeks."

"If it is completely impossible to remedy the situation or to fulfill one's wishes, there is no reason to get upset, for how will becoming unhappy help?" Friendly quoted sagely.

"Being _pleased_ about it won't exactly help either," Carrion growled. It was so annoying how That accursed Idiot could get under his skin so easily without even trying. His plan would be torn to smaller pieces if he lost control of things, and it looked like the session was headed that way.

"Ah, I see now," Friendly said with an air of wisdom, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands benevolently over his slightly pudgy stomach. "You don't believe you are able to control your anger, do you?" he asked, offering his patient a smile of understanding and kindness.

Carrion hissed something luckily unintelligible under his breath, and the therapist now leaned forward again in earnest, speaking out strongly in an effort to make his patient understand – _believe_ – that living without uncontrolled anger was possible!

"You can learn anger management techniques, regardless of the cause of your anger. Admitting the fact that your anger is out-of-control is essential to tackling the problem. Uncontrolled anger results in added troubles to your life. But you _can_ control your anger! Controlling your anger is a _choice you can make!_"

"Is that so?" the Prince of Darkness (and suffering and anger and impatience) asked scathingly.

"Indeed," the therapist replied with all the fervor of a fanatic. "Anger is a very strong emotion. Uncontrolled anger is a life-long pattern. It is not easy to overcome anger; it requires determined commitment. It requires honesty, courage, and tremendous inner strength. It also requires help from others."

Carrion openly scoffed at that nonsense, but Friendly ignored him and leaned forward over the table. "I can help you, Mister Carrion. I have had other patients like you before and helped them, too! It's a program of four sessions and so will fit easily in the time we have together. What do you think?"

"I think you are the one who is in need of therapy," Carrion bit out. He was trying to listen to That Idiot in order to determine any threats from him while attempting to salvage any remaining possibility of his plot's success. It was giving him a headache.

"The first session – that'll be this one – is quite simple," Friendly explained, ignoring the comment. "Today, we will focus on the identification of the mistaken attitudes and convictions that predispose us to being excessively angry in the first place!"

"I have no mistaken attitudes!" Carrion snarled, and the therapist blinked, somewhat startled by his vehemence.

"I see we'll have to start with the basics," sighed Friendly as he dug haphazardly through his garish bag, pulling out a bright pink piece of paper with bold black words: "**Five Steps to Overcome Anger!**" He slid the paper across the table to Carrion with a bright smile. "These steps will help you in the individual situations you feel anger, whereas our sessions focus on your entire life!" he explained, sounding very proud of himself. Against his better judgment, Carrion glanced at the list of steps and their descriptions, which made the Lord of Midnight roll his eyes in utter exasperation.

_Consciously determine to be calm._ As if anyone forced to endure an evil cat, a devious girl, and an insane therapist could! _Communicate._ With whom about what? If any one of them listened to a thing he said, he'd kiss the kitten. _Remove yourself from the scene until you can respond without anger._ And how was that possible for him, hm? He hadn't left these four cursed rooms in over a week and won't for another three! _Frequently take time for yourself._ Hah! Ditto. What was he supposed to do, lock himself in the bathroom for hours on end? _Look for the positives._

"Look for the positives!" Carrion barked aloud. He couldn't help it. The list was so ridiculous that this last bit of idiocy was too much. Unfortunately, Friendly interpreted it as an honest question.

"Don't dwell on the negatives. Learn to be forgiving. This is difficult, but we need to start by learning to forgive ourselves! Choose to!" the man chirped, quoting the description of the step from memory.

And that was the final straw for Carrion. Forget the plan. He couldn't stand another second of That Idiot if his life depended on it. "Out," Carrion whispered, quietly but with great force.

"Pardon?"

"_Out_. _Now_."

"But I-"

"Get _out_ or your head will go the same way as the ink bottles!" roared Christopher Carrion, Lord of Midnight, Prince of Darkness, Master of Gorgossium, etc. etc. etc.. Even the kitten, with the knowledge that Carrion was furious with Friendly, not him, and wouldn't harm his temporary ally anyway, cowered reflexively under the table.

Friendly stared, gulped, snatched up his bag, and started hurriedly for the door. "Analyze your angry reaction and use the 'Five Steps to Overcome Anger' to plan a way you could have overcome it for our next session – identifying factors from your childhood that prevent the appropriate expression of anger!" the therapist said over his shoulder, sounding a little high-pitched, as he ran out the door.

Carrion stared at the offending paper so fiercely that it burst into flame and turned to ash in seconds. That done, he slowly stood up, leveled one long, furious, powerful glare at the people he knew were watching behind the mirror (which he knew he'd be forced to clean later), and stalked out of the kitchen.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_Perhaps I overreacted slightly._

…

_All right, possibly more than slightly. But I can't say that I care. That Idiot had it coming, and his thrice-cursed "anger management" theories are a good enough outlet for my irritation as any. Thankfully That Thing has remained subdued and out of my way for the day. It cooperated well, I must admit, and I believe one of the best ways to attack That __**(censored)**__ Idiot is through That Thing. He seems to have a disgusting fondness for it… Five days to plan. I must get started._

…

_If That Idiot honestly thinks I will be talking about my _childhood_ he is an even greater idiot than I thought._


	8. Ch 7: In Which Another Letter Arrives

Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

**Spoilers: **Must I say it yet again?

**Warnings and Pairings: **See Prologue if you're still not sure.

**Notes: **Um… At least I made it within seven months, right? Right? I can't apologize enough. You know I try not to take up space with excuses, but this is gonna be long anyway and I just have to say: I've been crazy busy and when I _finally_ start writing Ch. 7, halfway through I realize I'm writing something totally different which is _actually _gonna show up in Ch. 10! I mean, what the heck? (sigh) Finally, please feel free to review/e-mail me with ideas &/or stuff you wanna see! I do have a basic outline, but suggestions & criticisms are always welcome.

* * *

Chapter Seven: In Which Another Letter Arrives and a Game is Almost Played

**Journal Entry Ten: Day 14**

_I refuse to think on my "appointment" tomorrow. (Needless to say, I have not even considered completing that ridiculous "assignment.") Today will be about appreciating the calm, silence, and solitude of my rooms – nothing more._

…

_Although I must admit I find it slightly disturbing that, when it is not occupied by That Idiot, "my prison" becomes "my rooms" and I am actually rather fond of the place. Even That Thing seems less vile in comparison._

_This leads me to wonder if perhaps they brought in Friendly, _not_ to assist in "rehabilitating" me, but solely to make my prison and That Thing more appealing._

…

_I refuse to even consider the possibility that they might succeed, even partially, in their convoluted plots._

_**-.-.-.-**_

Christopher Carrion took this opportunity to glower suspiciously at the mirror in the living area. The tarrie-kitten was draped across an arm of the couch, amber eyes half-closed with drowsiness, looking blissfully content with the world and all things in it.

With difficulty, Carrion resisted chucking his wonderfully thick, hard-cover journal at it out of sheer spite.

He forced himself (with a restraint he'd had to exercise far too often as of late) to instead set it down on the table, lean back in his armchair, and close his eyes. After a few minutes of trying not to dwell on his less-than-desirable situation, Carrion felt calm and quiet sink into him. The only noise was his breathing. He could forget the walls imprisoning him, forget the people watching him, forget the therapist driving him insane, could almost see his old rooms in his favorite tower…

And then someone knocked on the door.

Carrion's eyes snapped open and his previous irritation came pouring back, worse than before. _Why must my few peaceful moments always end with that blasted knocking? _So it was with stormy expression and vicious glare that he strode into the hallway to confront the disturber of his peace. Halfway down the hall, the door opened to admit a guard, carrying a platter of dead things and a letter, much as one had a week ago. As Carrion came nearer, however, he realized two differences between then and now.

Not only had the vet failed to arrive, but this time the dead things were mice.

"What?" Carrion snapped, pinning the guard with a glare much as one would pin a butterfly to a corkboard.

"In the letter," said the guard.

Carrion wondered if he was the same one who'd delivered The Girl's first letter, but dismissed the question as irrelevant. "Put it on the table," he commanded, gesturing in the kitchen's general direction. The guard did so, though Carrion could tell it irked him to follow the orders of a prisoner. Well, too bad for him – he was dealing with Gorgossium's prince and would behave accordingly.

Once his supplies had been delivered, the guard left without another word and locked the door behind him. (Though it was a slim chance indeed, Carrion always listened for the click of the lock. All it would take was one little slip, one forgetful or distracted guard…) Carrion stared into the kitchen at the letter lying innocently on the table, debating whether or not he should ignore it to prove that he was by no means so easily controlled by his captors. In the end, however, he decided that it was best to be informed of their intentions.

So, Carrion went into the kitchen and sat down with his back to the mirror, the better to conceal any reactions to what was most likely The Girl's latest missive. (She'd said every week, hadn't she? Was it possible that he'd only been here two weeks? It felt like years…) He looked up suddenly, warned almost by some seventh sense (the sixth being magical sense), to see the kitten wander with lazy interest into the kitchen. _I wouldn't be surprised if I _had_ developed a seventh sense as far as detecting That Thing,_ Carrion thought darkly, turning a suspicious look on the subject of his thoughts.

The tarrie cocked its head innocently.

Carrion sneered and opened his letter.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_Dear Mr. Carrion, _it began in Candy's handwriting.

(Here Carrion scowled. Was it really that difficult for this pack of imbeciles_ not_ to tack on that inane title?)

_Congratulations on making it through your second week. First of all, as you've probably already noticed, Dr. Cerra will be a little late for the kitten's weekly check-up._

_**-.-.-.-**_

Just as he finished reading the sentence and remembering that, oh yes, Tev_ did _have a last name, Carrion was interrupted by a brisk rap on the door. In the kitchen's entrance, the tarrie mewed joyfully and raced toward the sound. It, like Carrion, recognized the identity of their visitor. Sure enough, the door opened a moment later and the veterinarian strode inside. Carrion stood (common courtesy, after all, and a position of authority), refolded the letter, and tossed it onto the table; while Tev was on the whole better than most of the idiots he was forced to deal with, that was no reason for him to know Carrion's private business. _If, _he added mentally,_ this one-sided correspondence could be considered as such._

Tev set his case down on the table and nodded a greeting. "Afternoon."

"Afternoon, doctor," Carrion said, inclining his head in return.

The vet sat down and picked up a very happy tarrie-kit, who'd followed him into the kitchen adoringly. It purred loudly as Tev carefully examined it, clearly enjoying the attention. After only a few minutes, Tev set the kitten back on the floor, where it proceeded to twine around his legs in gratitude, and rubbed a hand over his eyes wearily.

"The kit's just fine, of course… Sorry I'm late, by the way. Had to visit Three O'clock in the morning for an appointment…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "I'll not bore you with the details, of course, but I will say this: it's almost relaxing, coming here after that!"

Carrion decided that whatever had required the vet's attention on Pyon must have been perfectly horrific.

"Would you care for a glass of water?" he asked, rather stiffly, after a moment. He knew how to be hospitable – his charming grandmother had seen to that – but as someone used to ruling by fear, his skills had grown considerably rusty. Still, he had the vague feeling that Tev deserved it. He'd come to feel a certain tolerance for the vet as the only other sane person he'd encountered in this death trap, and Tev had plainly had a rough time of it earlier. As someone Carrion deemed a decent person, he deserved at least the rudiments of hospitality. Besides, his captors would ultimately be using the vet as a source for their decision of whether or not to release him. He'd decided some time ago that if he could get Tev on his side, so much the better – the fact that the vet was tolerable was simply a bonus.

To his surprise, upon hearing the offer Tev burst out laughing.

Greatly affronted, Carrion snarled, "You'll have to excuse my feeble attempt at courtesy!"

Tev raised a hand as he tried to stifle his laughter. "Here now, calm down! I heard what happened to that imbecile of an excuse for a therapist, Carrion, and I'd rather not get the same treatment, if you don't mind!"

Carrion paused a moment as he tried to decide whether to be mollified or even more offended. He wasn't very surprised, though – it figured his torturers would gloat about their success in irritating him to anyone within hearing.

"Ah, don't bristle your fur at me like that," said Tev. "I really do appreciate the offer, but I've got another appointment in a minute."

"Very well," Carrion growled, the bristling fur comment helping him to settle on staying offended.

The vet gave him an all-too-knowing look, tugged the kitten's tail affectionately, picked up his case, nodded once more to Carrion, and strode toward the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned back. "Oh, before I forget – keep up the good treatment of the kit. But you've got to remember he needs physical contact! Tarrie-cats are social creatures, and he needs a playmate as much as he needs a caretaker." With those final words of wisdom, he was gone.

Carrion sat back down in his chair, glowering after Tev, and unfolded Candy's letter again. While he was doing so, he realized two things: first, Tev had called Friendly an imbecile, and second, he was the first and only one in this jail to say simply 'Carrion.' It was a step down from "Master" or "Lord," of course, but…

Carrion decided he wasn't quite so irritated after all.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_Dear Mr. Carrion,_

_Congratulations on making it through your second week. First of all, as you've probably already noticed, Dr. Cerra will be a little late for the tarrie-kitten's weekly check-up. Speaking of Dr. Cerra, he has assured us recently that you are still managing to keep the kitten healthy physically, which is a great relief. However, according to both him and Jimothi Tarrie, you have been woefully lax in keeping him socialized and mentally stimulated through play. We understand that your first (and only) attempt at this was slightly less than successful, but please don't let that stop you from continuing to play with the kitten._

(Here Carrion stared in silent outrage._ "Slightly less than successful?" _He'd been _mauled! _And come to think of it, that entire paragraph dovetailed far too neatly with the vet's little sermon. Carrion sensed a plot.)

_In addition, you still need to give him a name – and not just a random word or phrase to satisfy the requirement, please, but something that has meaning to both of you._

_You will have noticed by now that, instead of insects, you have received mice. Jimothi says it time to start introducing the kitten to slightly larger prey. We trust you will have no problem doing so. Insects will still be provided occasionally, so please continue simulating the motion of live prey whenever possible. In a day or two we'll put these exercises into practice._

(Here Carrion couldn't help but roll his eyes, disgusted. Names, mice… Would it ever end? The final line of the paragraph, however, was a little confusing. What did she mean by that? Perhaps they were planning to let That Thing out to see if it could feed itself. He allowed himself a happy vision of it starving or being mauled by a wild animal.)

_Finally… Well, I know he can be a little…trying, but please do your best to handle Dr. Friendly's sessions with the same restraint and patience you've lately shown the tarrie-kitten. His reports will be one of the factors taken into account at the end of the month._

_And, really, throwing ink and pouring water are rather immature actions, don't you think?_

_I know you can do better._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Candy Quackenbush_

_**-.-.-.-**_

Immature? _Immature?_ Carrion glared at the letter for a moment, seriously contemplating crumpling it into a ball and hurling it at the kitchen mirror. However, that would be classified as an "immature action," wouldn't it? He sneered derisively. Christopher Carrion, Lord of Midnight, Prince of Darkness, Master of Gorgossium, etc. etc. etc. was not _immature_ – merely under a great deal of stress which would have long ago utterly broken any other man! Some outbursts were to be expected in such circumstances, after all. And he couldn't risk setting fire to this as well as That Idiot's Five Steps. They'd let that go, but he knew that deliberately setting other things on fire would be frowned upon.

Very gently and with great composure, Carrion set The Girl's insulting epistle down on the table. He mentally ran through her latest list of requirements: play with That Thing, name it, feed it mice, tolerate That Idiot. Obviously, there was only one which was even remotely acceptable.

Carrion peered under the table. Yes, That Thing was still there, licking one of its paws. Carrion, with great strength of will, did _not_ kick the paw away. (Only two days ago he'd found an absolutely revolting ball of hair at the foot of his bed. It had taken a good ten minutes to stifle the resulting murderous impulses.)

With an irate scowl, Carrion pulled his head back above the table and studied the dead mice with disgust. One would think that, what with being the ruler of an island like Gorgossium and having the Hag for a relative, Christopher Carrion ought to be used to all manner of repulsive things, but somehow nothing quite surpassed the sight of those dead mice (except maybe the hairball, or That Thing's litter box, or its disturbingly large eyes, or…well, anything else to do with it, really). Still, it was a far better task than the others The Girl had so audaciously set him.

Gingerly, he grasped the tip of one's tail and tossed it under the table. The little carcass slid to rest at the kitten's paws. It jumped back in surprise at the sudden motion, then leaned forward to cautiously sniff at the strange object. Carrion waited for it to start eating - but no such reaction was forthcoming. Instead, the kitten cocked its head in confusion.

Carrion narrowed his eyes at it and pushed the mouse forward with his foot. Still the kitten wouldn't touch it. He thought about throwing another one, hard enough to hit the cat – maybe in anger or self-defense it would at least bite the mouse? – but discarded that idea as the one the vet and The Girl might classify as "abusive."

The tarrie prodded the corpse with a paw, tilted its head this way and that, and looked up at Carrion curiously.

Carrion tried not to groan.

He stood up and began pacing the length of the table, trying to think of a way to get that stupid cat to eat. He guessed that both Jimothi Tarrie and Tev would have several ideas on how to approach the problem, but Carrion had no intention of crawling to either of them for help.

_That Thing would devour anything offered to it by Jimothi Tarrie,_ Carrion thought, _and possibly anything from the vet as well._ He thought about it a little more and suddenly remembered the incident with the smyrion fruit (a food which he had not been given since). _I suppose, if our situations were reversed, I would certainly be unwilling to accept any food That Thing might present to me._

Well, there was nothing else for it. Carrion ceased his pacing with a satisfied nod.

He'd have to trick the tarrie.

_It shouldn't be too hard,_ he reasoned, staring pensively at the mice. _Although cunning, That Thing is not particularly intelligent…_ And then, it came to him, practically with a blinding flash of light. He could satisfy two requirements at once, if he went about it the right way. Carrion smirked at the table, imagining the unsuspecting kitten beneath, and went to get his supplies.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion returned to the kitchen looking rather smug. Behind the kitchen mirror, two guards' jaws dropped.

Their prisoner had wrapped cloth around his arms from fingertip to elbow. It was so thickly padded that his arms appeared to be more than twice as thick as normal. In one hand, he carried a long strip of cloth which he began to tie with some difficulty around the tail of a dead mouse.

Christopher Carrion had finally cracked.

Paterzem exchanged hands.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion finished tying the mouse to the cloth strip and studied his protective gear, feeling very self-satisfied indeed. True, the tying had been difficult by the fact that his fingers were virtually tied together, but he was willing to sacrifice time for safety. His plan was simple yet elegant: tease the cat with the cloth as he had before, thus fulfilling the "play" requirement while tricking it into grabbing onto the mouse and then – hopefully – realizing it was edible. He'd fashioned thick covers for his hands and arms out of the cloth that remained from the kitten's bundle and one of his shirts. It wouldn't have a place to sleep now, but no claws would sink into his skin _this_ time, of that he was sure!

Trying to not too feel _too_ smug (because, apart from plans potentially hinging on minute details, the universe had a tendency of destroying the best-laid ones simply to take the planner down a peg), Carrion pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. The kitten looked up with interest. Carrion held out the strip, mouse hanging from the end, dangling it teasingly in front of the kitten's face. It crouched almost automatically, ready to pounce, and Carrion waited for its muscles to tense - then jerked the cloth out of the cat's reach just as it was about to grasp the tantalizing thing.

This went on for at least five minutes before the kitten started to look frustrated – exactly what Carrion had been waiting for. He yanked the cloth one more time…and, just as he'd calculated, the tarrie caught the mouse by the tips of its claws and swiftly pulled it down to bite it for a more secure grip.

Carrion relaxed his arm so that the mouse was held up only by the kitten's grasp on it and leaned back to see if his plan would work. Sure enough, the little tarrie seemed confused by its catch at first, but after tasting the mouse it took a cautious bite. It was apparently quite satisfied with the results, as it devoured the rest in short order.

Finally allowing himself to feel proud of his triumph, Carrion smirked and tossed the cat another mouse.

And the cat didn't eat it.

Carrion scowled at it ferociously. This _would_ happen the moment he let his guard down. Cursed universe…

And so Carrion picked up the mouse, tied it to the cloth strip, and repeated the entire process. This time, when the tarrie began eating the mouse, Carrion was more cautious. He knew now that something was up. Perhaps the cat simply hadn't yet made the connection between mouse-on-a-string and mouse-on-the-floor. It was possible. But it was also possible that the devious beast was plotting something. Carrion was fairly certain it would be unable to penetrate his armor, but it was untested and he had no desire to change that. _Very well,_ he decided. _Once more._ And he tossed down a third mouse.

And the cat didn't eat it.

Carrion very nearly screamed at the accursed stubborn beast. "There are starving tarrie-cats out there who would kill for one scrap of that mouse!" he snapped, glaring at the kitten, who still didn't eat the mouse. Carrion rolled his eyes to the ceiling and reached down to pick up the mouse and do it all over again when suddenly he realized something.

The kitten had a gleam in its amber eyes, a playful gleam which practically begged for more fun with the cloth strip. Almost any other person would have gladly indulged in a few more games of chase-the-cloth with the tarrie-kitten and had fun doing so.

Christopher Carrion, however, was _not_ any other person.

He stood abruptly, snatched up the platter of mice, and dumped them into the kitten's food dish. He whirled about on his heel, pierced the cat with a fierce stare, and stalked out of the kitchen in bad temper.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The tarrie grinned up at Snarl, eyes sparkling with anticipation, waiting for the next round of the game to begin. It hadn't taken long to figure out how to play – chase the string till you catch it, and then you get to eat the furry brown thing. It was a fun game.

But then suddenly Snarl stalked away, hackles up and fur bristling. The kitten was left to stand there by the table, wondering a little sadly what in the world had stopped their game and set Snarl off_ this_ time. His shoulders slumped in a sigh of resignation. He knew how touchy Snarl was, should've known it wouldn't last long. But he _missed_ playing with his siblings, the people who'd taken care of them, Jimothi, Nice Girl, Tev…

But Snarl was different. Snarl didn't play or groom or anything. Normally this didn't bother the kitten very much, as he was really rather mature for his age, but sometimes it really did.

So he meandered into the next room, found his favorite spot to curl up in, tucked his nose into his tail, and closed his eyes.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion, in his armchair, eyed the animal suspiciously when it entered the living room, looking almost - depressed. He stood up and moved into the bedroom, glancing periodically over his shoulder the entire way.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_I am slipping._

_I rarely have shortcomings to admit, but when I do I am honest about them (with myself, at least)._

_I do not know whether the additional stress of dealing with That Idiot is to blame, or the length of time I've spent in this glorified prison, or some other random factor, but I am slipping. My faculties are not as sharp as they ought to be._

_That Thing was able to successfully manipulate me._

_Me! Christopher Carrion, Lord of Midnight, Prince of Darkness, Master of Gorgossium, etc. etc. etc.… I am disgusted with myself. Never again shall That Thing find me caught off-guard by its devious machinations. Never again shall I forget its true purpose, its true nature._

_That Thing thinks itself clever. Well, I will tolerate it so long as That Idiot threatens my sanity, but when he is gone…_

_That Thing had best watch out._


	9. Ch 8: In Which Carrion is not Leeman Vol

Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal)– Amaruk Wolfheart

**Spoilers: **_Abarat_ 1 & 2, just like always. When is 3 coming out, anyway?

**Warnings and Pairings: **Some crickets lose their lives graphically in this chapter. If this bothers you, the author urges you to click the back button before you become distressed. No pairings, unless you want to see a hint of Candy/Carrion.

**Notes: **Look how soon this has been posted! It took less than half a year! That's partly because I had the general idea of this chapter since, oh, the second or third day after I thought of this entire fic. So yay! More quotes taken from anger management websites; links for credit can be found in my profile. I do hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

* * *

Chapter Eight: In Which Christopher Carrion is not Leeman Vol

**Journal Entry Twelve: Day 16**

_That_

…

_I_

…

_No. I_

…

No.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Christopher Carrion threw the journal at the wall opposite him. It collided with a satisfying 'thunk.' He folded his arms across his chest and glowered at the wall, wondering if he'd managed to dent it. …And no, he was _not _sulking. He was "expressing his feelings of anger in a mature, healthy way." His glower intensified into an all-out glare, and the section of the wall he was staring at started to smoke gently.

A quizzical mew caught his attention and Carrion switched his glare from the wall to the tarrie-cat poking its head in the doorway. On the way from the wall to the tarrie, his expression softened (if you could call it that) back to a glower and the wall stopped smoking.

"Go away," Carrion growled, and the kitten retreated, though not without a concerned glance over its shoulder. Carrion returned to brooding.

He was sequestered in the bedroom, a place he had rarely frequented before yesterday, because it was going to take a while for him to be able to sit down in his favored armchair again. That Idiot had contaminated the living room almost beyond all hope of cleansing.

Until yesterday, Carrion hadn't had much of an idea of just how much he'd come to regard his prison, particularly the living area, as _his_. He supposed that he ought to be grateful to the therapist, in a way, for reminding him not to get comfortable in these rooms… But it was too late. Carrion was a territorial person by nature and after two weeks these rooms had become _his_.

The kitchen and the hallway were both reserved for dealing with intruders on his privacy. They were still his, but the presence of others could be tolerated. The other rooms, however, were strictly off-limits. He didn't spend a great deal of time in either the bedroom or bathroom, but they were the two most private rooms and he was fiercely opposed to anyone else entering them. The living room, however, was something of a special case. It was where he passed the majority of his time, where he felt most comfortable. The vet was possibly the only other person Carrion would (reluctantly) allow to enter it.

But yesterday…

_No._ Carrion shook his head, wishing he hadn't thrown the journal earlier so he'd have something to throw now. _I refuse to allow That Idiot to invade my thoughts as well as my h-…my current dwelling place. _Carrion scowled. That _was_ their plan – use That Idiot to make both cat and torture chamber seem more palatable. And _curse _them, it was working!

This time, he couldn't resist going back to the therapist's visit. It was painful, like trying to walk on broken glass, but somehow he couldn't help himself…

_**-.-.-.-**_

He and the kitten had been sitting on the couch together, Carrion outlining his latest plot, when the knocking began. As he headed into the hall to answer the door, Carrion briefly considered having them install a doorbell – something pleasant, like the screams of the dying.

Sure enough, there stood the therapist in all his insanely grinning glory. He'd only barely restrained himself from snatching up the kitten, and Carrion (though he'd half-expected it) was rather disappointed by the lack of blood. His disappointment had turned to hastily concealed surprise when Friendly announced that their session would take place in the living room.

Carrion had been furious, of course, but unable to do anything about it, and even the ever-paranoid Lord of Midnight hadn't suspected what damage would be done by the therapist's latest bright idea. So, the three of them had trooped into the living room – Friendly leading the way as if he owned the place, Carrion simmering, and the tarrie feeling rather confused – where the therapist had settled himself into _Carrion's armchair_.

"Please, have a seat!" Friendly had chirped, gesturing at the couch.

Carrion saw red. But what could he do? He had no protest other than "that's _my_ chair," which would sound petulant and childish at best, and simply throttling Friendly would get him back to prison in the blink of an eye. What course of action was there other than to sit on the cursed couch?

Friendly had gone on to explain, in that cheery voice which grated horribly on Carrion's nerves, that they would be moving on to the second anger management session. The therapist was thrilled to have a truly in-depth session with his recalcitrant patient, one where they could really get to the bottom of these uncontrollable anger issues, and Carrion was too busy trying to burn a hole in the man's forehead with his glare to pay attention to the sudden feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach.

Then Friendly had asked him to lie down on the couch and it had all gone spectacularly, horrifically downhill from there.

After a fifteen-minute-long argument in which Friendly suddenly chose to show a bit of a spine, Carrion had finally given in and lied down stiffly on the couch. "Now then," Friendly said, "I have devised four sessions to properly managing your anger. The first session in managing anger in our personal relationships appropriately is the identification of the mistaken attitudes and convictions that predispose us to being excessively angry in the first place! As you may remember, that is what we worked on in our last meeting." Carrion wondered if the man suffered from delusions, because he certainly didn't remember that – only those ludicrous five steps. "The second session," the therapist continued, "is the identification of those factors from our childhood that prevent us from expressing our anger as appropriately as we otherwise might, and that is what we will focus on today." Friendly had paused, given him one of those blinding smiles. "Are you ready?" Carrion grunted. Then the questions had begun.

Questions about his childhood, his family, his life… Private things which were the business of _no one_, let alone That Idiot. Carrion had done his best to slither out of actually answering anything, throwing back gallons of sarcasm or outright lying when he couldn't, but the therapist was relentless in pursuit of answers and such personal questions – never mind the memories, often long-forgotten or buried, they dredged up – chipped away at Carrion's restraint.

Oddly enough, it was the kitten that had saved him. It had jumped up onto his chest in the middle of one of Friendly's questions, nearly startling Carrion out of his skin. Once he'd gotten the impulse to chuck it across the room under control, he'd realized that Friendly was distracted from his interrogation at the sight of the kitten.

So Carrion had sat up, dumping the kitten into his lap, and said in no uncertain terms that today's session was over. Friendly had protested of course, but Christopher Carrion can be very persuasive.

That Idiot had left and Carrion had fled the living room, holing up in the bedroom and trying to ignore all the painful memories Friendly's questions had brought back to life.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion shifted restlessly. It had been foolish of him to give into the temptation to remember. Friendly's questions, peppered with admonishments on not properly handling negative emotions, ran through his head again and Carrion gritted his teeth with irritation. After several long minutes of imagining what Friendly might look like thrown to a horde of starving sacbrood, Carrion felt marginally better.

He got up, walked over to the fallen journal, and tossed it onto the bed. (One never knew when a heavy projectile might come in handy.) This done, he made his way into the kitchen for a nice, cold glass of water.

The kitten was already there and it looked up at Carrion with large, concerned eyes. Carrion sneered, and it cheered up a little.

As Carrion filled his glass, he realized that the tarrie was very nearly twice the size it had been upon its arrival, and the black stripes that mark the fur of an adult tarrie-cat were just beginning to show. Tarries spent about half a year in kittenhood and experienced a growth spurt before reaching adult size. By the time his month-long sentence was over, this one would be nearly full-grown.

Carrion found the idea a little unnerving in spite of himself. A tarrie-kitten was one thing to deal with; an adult tarrie-cat was something else entirely. After all, there was a reason the beasts had been chosen to guard Kaspar Wolfswinkel's prison. That Thing might decide it was powerful enough to attack him outright, and Carrion had no doubt that The Girl and her lackeys would turn any effort at self-defense into a murder attempt.

These dark contemplations led him to frown at the animal in question, which was licking one paw with an innocent air. Carrion huffed irritably and picked up his glass.

Then, someone knocked on the door.

Only the automatic knowledge that it was a guard-knock, not a therapist-knock, kept Carrion from shrieking with rage. As it was, he did drop the glass. (Luckily, he'd been holding it over the sink and neither it nor the glass was easily broken.)

The Prince of Midnight composed himself and headed for the door, his bad temper evident only in stiff shoulders and a worse-than-usual glare. A guard walked in as he entered the hall, carrying what was at first glance a small box with a handful of little holes in the top and sides.

"The reason for today's interruption?" Carrion snapped.

"It was in the letter," said the guard, sounding a bit defensive.

Carrion waved one hand at the kitchen table, muttering, "Why this could not be delivered with lunch or dinner, I fail to comprehend."

The guard quickly deposited the box on the table and left with haste. Carrion waited until the click of the lock before stalking into the kitchen to study the box, trying to remember when such a thing had been mentioned in The Girl's letter.

…He supposed that if he couldn't recall it he'd have to retrieve the letter from its place tucked into the back of the journal. Carrion had, of course, contemplated destroying both letters in a show of defiance, but decided in the end that having a written record of their expectations might one day come in handy.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The kitten had felt a rush of relief when he'd heard the door to Snarl's den open. Sometimes wounded animals stayed hidden in their caves and died there. It would be good to see Snarl walking about, because the kitten was worried.

Yesterday, when Leech had invaded their territory, he'd waited for Snarl to fight the intruder. Snarl's voice had been as sharp as any claws, but he'd let the Leech in anyway. The kitten had settled down nearby, anticipating an ambush which never came. Leech had done something bad to the Tall Snarling Man and the kitten wasn't sure if Snarl would be all right or not. When he'd jumped onto Snarl's chest, Snarl's heart had been beating quickly, like prey being hunted. Snarl _never_ felt hunted! It was all the Leech's fault.

It might help if he actually knew what Leech had done, but he knew only that something had badly upset Snarl. Snarl wouldn't sit with the kitten anymore, retreating to his den to lick his wounds whenever he wasn't eating, and the tarrie missed the company. Actually, he was getting a bit lonely. If only Jimothi or Tev were there! Jimothi understood him best, but Tev was quick for a human and he was the one Snarl liked best of all the other people. Tev might be able to play with the tarrie _and _help Snarl! But how to summon him? Tev only came when the kitten might have been hurt…so maybe if he pretended to be injured Tev would appear?

While the kitten pondered these weighty matters, he didn't quite register the entrance of the guard. However, a familiar scent was enough to rouse him from his thoughts.

Yes, there was Snarl… And the scent came from on top of the table. Food! Yes, that was it! The smell conjured memories of Snarl flicking the crispy little things for him to jump at and catch and eat. For a moment, he wondered if they'd ever play that game again…

Then he decided he was hungry and leapt onto the chair.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion was distracted from his own musings by a sudden movement. He saw the kitten standing on his chair, looking at the tabletop with an air of determination. A crouch and a leap brought it onto the table, and it trotted over to sniff at the corners of the box and the little holes it had.

The Lord of Gorgossium idly wondered if the box's contents might harm the tarrie-cat. _Highly unlikely, but…_ Carrion smirked. It was worth a shot.

He stepped closer to the table and pulled off the box's lid.

It exploded.

Little dark things bounced everywhere as they shot out of the box's confines, and the kitten gleefully pounced on one and ate it with apparent relish.

If Christopher Carrion wasn't naturally as white as a corpse, he would have paled.

_Crickets_.

_Scores_ of them, even _hundreds_ – _alive_.

"What the _Nefernow_?" Carrion managed to hiss as the kitten leapt after another cricket, the others continuing to scatter all over the kitchen. Finally, terrible realization dawned. The Girl's letter…preparing the cursed kitten for "_live prey_"… He only just held back a groan.

After scrupulously checking it for stray crickets, Carrion sat down on his kitchen chair and watched the kitten leap off the table after one of the vile insects. Well, there was nothing for it now. He could only hope the cat would be able to find and kill all of them, because unless he resorted to trying to crush them with the furniture or his bare hands there wasn't much he could do.

He had a sudden urge to just rest his head in his hands and pretend that not one of the last sixteen days, plus his week in prison, had ever happened…

Then he felt a cricket bounce off his shin, anger replaced despondency, and Carrion felt a certain amount of satisfaction as he squashed the thing. Especially when he imagined it with That Idiot's grinning face.

_**-.-.-.-**_

That evening, Carrion was sitting (somewhat uneasily) on the arm of the couch, pretending the armchair didn't exist. He'd entered the living room after the vindictive murdering of three more hapless crickets, and from his perch on the couch arm he was directing the tarrie's half-playful, half-serious cricket hunting.

He guessed that most were dead by now, although it wasn't as if he'd been able to count the cursed things. A flash of movement near the kitchen caught his sharp gaze.

"Cat!" Carrion's voice cracked like a whip in the silence, and the kitten came galloping happily over to him. Carrion pointed to the stray cricket imperiously and the kitten dropped into a hunting crouch. The Prince of Darkness watched with grim approval as the cricket was caught and eaten.

Another thirty minutes passed without any sign of the insidious invaders. The kitten had by then curled up with a very full stomach in a corner of the couch (the corner next to Carrion, to his discomfort) and was fast asleep, worn out by the day's exertions.

Carrion suppressed a yawn, decided that if the tarrie could rest he deserved some sleep too, and stood with a stretch. He slipped into his bedroom without bothering to turn on the light, threw back the light sheet covering his bed, and lay down.

He was just starting to feel comfortably sleepy when he felt something brush against one of his feet. Carrion froze, immediately brought fully awake. And then he felt it again. Carrion narrowed his eyes in the darkness, reached out toward the small bedside table, and turned on the lamp.

Then he almost wished he hadn't.

There, on his bed, surrounding him, _on_ him, were tens – maybe even scores – of small, dark, antennae-twitching _crickets_.

Christopher Carrion let out a roar of sheer rage.

A couple of dozing guards fell out of their chairs in surprise and fright, immediately sounding the alarm. The tarrie-kitten woke up, and (rather foolishly) came running pell-mell into the bedroom and narrowly avoided being roasted by a ball of fire.

Carrion threw them left, right, and center, incinerating crickets in mid-hop as he made his way to the mirror. There he pounded on it furiously, only just holding back from breaking the glass, and roared again, this time managing actual words.

"I AM _NOT _LEEMAN VOL!"

And he flamed another cricket, the ash falling to the carpet.

Carrion scoured his bedroom in a towering rage, crisping the remaining insects to black carcasses and small piles of ash. The kitten wisely stayed out of sight. Just as Carrion assured himself that no living crickets remained in the room and stormed out into the hall, a group of people burst through the door – Candy, Malingo, Jimothi, a handful of guards, and (Carrion sneered, the fury that had been dying down returning almost instantly to near-full blaze) Finnegan Hob.

Carrion halted in the hall near the entrance to the bedroom. He stood firmly – feet spread apart, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders back, eyes blazing – and stared down the people who imprisoned and tortured him. Whatever they said, however they might twist the situation,_ he_ was in the right.

There was a moment of silence. Carrion took the opportunity to take control of his emotions, forcing them below a layer of icy calm. Fire was all very well in war, had served him admirably against the crickets, but ice worked best in confrontations such as the one he was about to enter into. While building on that layer of ice, he studied his opponents.

The guards meant nothing. They were foot soldiers of the Day with little to no magical talent or even intelligence. He could overpower the entire group present with a single spell.

However, they were not alone. The geshrat was a powerful wizard; Carrion would grant him that. He might prove a worthier opponent, though not one that could defeat the Lord of Midnight. Jimothi, though not a conventional user of magic, was powerful in his own right, and Carrion had no particular desire to tangle with the tarrie if it could be avoided. Hob… Carrion couldn't help but sneer again, couldn't help the hot bubble of hatred and disgust (and yes, jealousy) that welled up at the sight of the half-breed dragon hunter. He was not worth consideration.

And finally…The Girl. Candy. Carrion's gaze rested on her the longest. She was still a mystery to him. He still could never quite fathom her motivations, her thoughts and reasonings, and it drove him crazy to admit it, even to himself. She was powerful, he knew that, but did she? And that other…the princess… How much influence did she have over The Girl? It was impossible to tell. She was the one unknown quantity in the room and it galled him, though he'd never say so.

"Well?" It was Carrion who broke the silence, his tone as imperious as if they'd been standing in the foyer of the Twelfth Tower of Iniquisit on Midnight, not the entrance to the pathetic sets of rooms that imprisoned him.

Candy started to speak, but it seemed that Hob just couldn't keep quiet. "What do you think you're doing?" he hissed, glaring daggers at the man who'd caused the death of his bride years ago.

"Exterminating pests," answered Carrion coolly. He could still feel the rage of mere seconds earlier under his cold exterior, but Hob's reaction went a long way toward soothing that anger.

Obviously infuriated, both by Carrion's words and his entire manner, Hob clenched his hands into fists and took a step forward. "Finnegan!" Candy whispered, putting a hand out to hold him back. Hob stayed where he was a moment longer, glowering at Carrion, before stepping back into his place in the group.

Carrion couldn't stop the smallest of smirks from twitching at the corners of his scarred lips. Hob, checked like an unruly dog! The image would provide him with amusement for days, perhaps even years, to come. However, though several biting taunts sprang immediately to mind, he held his tongue. Riling Hob was always amusing, but he needed to maintain his place as the injured party in this conflict.

"Ca- Mister Carrion," Candy began, and the little smirk solidified at her slip, "I believe a better question might be 'what were you thinking?' – if, that is, you were thinking at all."

The smirk changed to an irritated frown. "I was merely reacting to the presence of filthy insects invading my _bed_, 'Miss Quackenbush,' as anyone would."

"With fireballs?" Hob snapped.

"As you are surely aware," Carrion continued, ignoring Hob in favor of speaking to Candy, "I have been under a certain amount of – shall we say, stress, lately. One of the few times I expect to be able to relax even slightly is when I sleep."

"I can understand that," Candy allowed, "but that doesn't excuse your use of magic when it is strictly forbidden and additionally posed a danger to the kitten."

"Neither I nor the- That Thing would have been in this situation were it not for you."

Carrion's silky accusation fell into silence, like a pebble into a still pool. In fact, he could almost see the ripples. The Girl looked a bit confused, and Hob too enraged to speak. Unsurprisingly, it was the geshrat who came to her defense this time.

"That's not true. It isn't the lady's fault!"

"On the contrary." Carrion sounded almost pleasant. Most of his remaining anger had faded at this golden opportunity to repay his captor a little for the trials he suffered. Oh, he couldn't fully repay her – not now, not yet – but it would be a start. "Whose idea was it to 'rehabilitate' me? Whose idea was it to use That Thing and the therapist to drive me insane? Whose idea was it to send me a box of live insects with no more warning than 'in the letter,' which, may I remind you, was received several days ago and contained no instructions to retain it?" He paused, allowing his words to sink in, the ripples to spread, before continuing softly. "I will admit, it can be argued that I - lost control. However, the majority of the responsibility for this situation is, quite plainly, _yours_."

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then suddenly Hob and Malingo began refuting Carrion's claims, Hob on the verge of shouting and Malingo in quieter but no less firm tones. Jimothi Tarrie shot Carrion a grim look but did not add his voice to the din Hob was making. Probably he would wait until later, when things were quieter and they had left Carrion's rooms, to assure Candy in private of his continued support. The guards were muttering amongst themselves. Some had doubtful faces, but the majority seemed to be of the opinion that if it was said by Gorgossium's prince, it must be a falsehood.

None of their reactions mattered, however, when Christopher Carrion saw the sudden flare of shock and guilt in Candy Quackenbush's eyes.

He knew then that finally – finally! – her self-confidence, which had grated on his nerves for longer than he cared to recall, had taken a blow, that he'd managed to plant the tiniest seed of self-doubt in her mind. Whether or not it would grow, whether or not the ripples in the water would have any effect, remained to be seen. Keeping his expression self-righteous indignation, Carrion mentally drew back to smirk and revel in his triumph, to fix the moment in his mind - and realized that a very small part of him felt, well, rather badly about causing that guilt and doubt. It somehow didn't seem right for her to be less than completely self-assured…

Irritated, Carrion ignored the feeling and focused on triumph again. He was finally brought out of his thoughts when someone barked, "Quiet!"

Hob and the geshrat shut up abruptly, Jimothi looked mildly relieved, and Carrion realized Tev had arrived.

"Evening, vet," said the Prince of Darkness.

"Don't even _try_ to be charming," snapped the vet.

The kitten (which, Carrion realized in one corner of his mind, had been crouched at his feet almost the entire time) bounced forward to greet Tev. Carrion assumed that only the shouting and tension – effectively broken by Tev's entrance – had kept it from greeting Jimothi in a similar manner. As he watched the vet inspect the cat with single-minded intensity, Carrion found that his gaze was drawn back to The Girl.

Tev's arrival seemed to have jolted Candy back to her usual confidence. For a disconcerting moment, Carrion wasn't sure whether he was annoyed or pleased.

"Well, this little one's just fine," Tev announced. There was a moment's pause in which the kitten fixed him with an intense stare, and a small frown creased the vet's features before he shook his head slightly. He gave the "little one" a few extra strokes before standing, and it ran to purr happily at Jimothi. "He's a little shaken, though not as badly as might be, given the circumstances." He finished with fixing a glare directed at the Lord of Gorgossium.

"I - overreacted," Carrion growled with the greatest reluctance.

"Overreacted?" Tev repeated, raising his eyebrows. The guards and Candy's group looked on in fascinated silence, but Carrion was uncomfortably aware of their presence. Alone, he might've gone for a civil response; with an audience, he had no choice.

"So would you, I think, if you were trying to sleep and found your bed infested by a horde of _insects!_" he spat.

Oddly, Tev switched his glare to Candy's group (though by now it was more of an exasperated glare rather than an angry one). "What were you…? No, never mind. I don't want to know. The tarrie-cat is fine and I am no longer needed."

Jimothi offered one paw-like hand and Tev shook it once, firmly. Candy started to speak, but the vet cut her off with a brisk but polite nod and headed for the door. He paused with one hand on the doorknob and turned back.

"Evening, Carrion," Tev said, and left.

Silence fell again. The veterinarian seemed to have that effect on people. Carrion didn't mind, though, because he knew that Tev's short farewell meant that he bore Carrion no ill will over this whole cricket fiasco. With more than a little irritation, Carrion wondered when he'd begun to take note of the vet's opinion.

"You'll have to clean up, of course," said The Girl suddenly. "And I must say it's a good thing you failed to harm that cat. We'll decide the consequences of your actions and get back to you later, Mister Carrion." She put the slightest emphasis on the "mister," just enough for Carrion to notice and be annoyed by it, and left the room without another word.

Jimothi gave the tarrie one last pat before making his own exit, and Malingo followed. Hob paused a moment, staring Carrion down. Carrion returned his gaze coolly. "If you even think about harming one hair on her head," Hob ground out, "I will kill you, Carrion."

"Oh, I know," Carrion answered. The little smirk had returned to his expression. "That was clearly explained to me upon my arrival here." He paused, relishing the moment. "You should know, however, that the tarrie-cat is a male."

Rage flared in the other man's eyes, and he opened his mouth to retort – then shut it with an audible click. Hob gave Carrion a look which clearly said 'you know what I meant and I will make your death long and painful' before leaving Carrion's rooms with a haste born of anger. The guards gave Carrion a wary look before they too trooped out the door and locked it behind them.

Carrion stayed where he was for a moment, savoring his victories and the emptiness of his rooms. Now that the crickets were cremated and his "guests" dispersed, he could finally relax…

Then he heard a mew.

Carrion looked down at the cat sitting by his feet. "You are a traitorous beast," he grumbled, without any real anger. "Get out of my sight."

It blinked up at him, then stood and rubbed against his leg with a loud purr, and trotted happily off into the living room to curl up on the couch. Carrion stood quite still, wondering if this was some new trick to contaminate him or some such devious thing. When nothing happened for several long minutes, he decided to worry about it tomorrow. Hopefully, there would be no ill effects.

The Lord of Midnight turned on his heel and strode back into his bedroom, ignoring the blackened cricket corpses and giving the bedclothes a vigorous shake. One lone cricket was flung out. It landed, twitched its antennae hopefully, and started to hop forward – only to be incinerated. Carrion picked up the journal, brushed a scattering of ashes off of its cover, and finally settled back in bed.

_**-.-.-.-**_

…_And of course That Thing probably herded the _**(censored)**_ things into the bedroom deliberately. In short, the evening has been…interesting, to say the least. Only my small triumphs over The Girl and that violent, half-breed imbecile kept it from being completely disastrous._

_But now I must focus on reclaiming my domain, both from any accursed insects remaining and from the taint of That Idiot's presence._

_My control slipped tonight. This cannot happen again. More than half of my required time has passed and I cannot give them any excuse not to release me in fourteen days._

…_Although if I see one more _**(censored)**_ cricket my restraint will be sorely tested._

…

_I always knew Vol was insane._


	10. Ch 9: In Which There is Cause for::

Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

**Spoilers: **Well, Clive Barker doesn't have Book 3 out yet so I can't spoil it. else is fair game.

**Warnings and Pairings: **Blah blah blah, same old. Nothing new here. Candy gets some screen time, but there's only the romance you want to see (if any).

**Notes: **I know I don't have the right to ask anything of you guys with my track record, but are any of you readers also artists? If someone is willing, it'd make my day to see a picture of Carrion and the cat.

* * *

Chapter Nine: In Which There is Cause for Celebration

**Journal Entry Fourteen: Day 19**

_It is…difficult to decide…whether I ought to be pleased…or simply furious._

_Nearly two-thirds of my "rehabilitation" is over, and yet eleven days remain to my sentence. Above all else, I must not allow myself to even hope for my release. It would be typical of them to make me believe I had a chance at freedom only to snatch it away. In all likelihood they will simply remove That Thing and leave me here to decay like so much refuse…_

_Still. At the very least I have only three more visits from That Idiot to suffer through, which in itself is something worth celebrating._

_**-.-.-.-**_

Christopher Carrion paused a moment, flipped back a few pages to glance at an early outline for a plan of attack, and then went to a blank page and started scrawling his next train of thought across it. For several more minutes he was still but for writing. Then he snapped the book shut angrily and jerked to his feet with a hissed curse. Carrion shook himself, much as the kitten did when trying to rid its fur of water, and glared down at the armchair. He still couldn't sit in it for more than a few hours at a time, curse that therapist's vermin-ridden hide!

A sudden weight on his foot pulled him back to the present and for the umpteenth time he managed to keep himself from kicking the blasted beast.

"What is it now?" Carrion snapped. "In case it has escaped your limited attention, That Idiot returns tomorrow and I need have a finalized plan as soon as possible. I don't have time to cater to the whims of a _cat_."

The kitten blinked up at him, reassured by his irritated tone, and left Carrion's foot for the kitchen. By now, it was almost too big to comfortably sit there, but that didn't stop it from continuing to perch on his foot for attention.

The Lord of Gorgossium scowled at the retreating animal and turned back to his armchair. He stood there and stared at it for a while. He could almost _see_ Friendly sitting there, mocking him with that neon smile and those infernal questions… Carrion stiffened. What if That Idiot was planning to try the same arrangement tomorrow? He wasn't sure he could see the therapist in His Chair again without picking the man up and throwing him into and through the nearest wall.

"I am doomed to insanity," Carrion muttered, and immediately frowned at himself. _No. That may be their plan but I refuse to give in to the torture. Let That Idiot come – I will triumph over him as I have before._

That resolved, he followed the tarrie-kitten into the kitchen. It was almost time for lunch – his guards were very punctual, so after almost three weeks his internal clock was set to mealtimes – and he was getting hungry. He still wondered every once in a while when they would poison one of his trays, but part of him believed that The Girl wouldn't try to kill him during his thirty days of rehabilitation.

Carrion stood at the table, waiting for the perfunctory single knock of a guard. Right on time, someone knocked on the door. _But,_ he realized with a frown,_ that is by no means a guard. Unless one of the imbeciles has decided to get creative…_

Carrion's confusion turned to hastily concealed surprise and suspicion when the door opened and Candy Quackenbush stepped in, carrying his tray of food.

The Prince of Darkness gave Candy a narrow-eyed stare as she walked over to set the tray on the table. It was the first time he'd seen or heard from her since the Cricket Incident, and even without The Girl's presence he was very wary of any changes in routine.

"What is it?" he asked, trying to sound at least a little cordial.

"Well, there's an important message for you," said Candy, "and I figured I might as well bring you your lunch at the same time."

_A message? Who would care to correspond with an imprisoned prince?_ Carrion's curiosity was piqued, though it would take worse torture than a kitten to get him to admit it. Instead of asking that question, however, he sought equally important information. "I see you've left your bodyguards behind."

Candy shrugged dismissively. "It seemed silly to drag any of them along for a quick chat."

Carrion raised an eyebrow but made no comment.

The Girl paused, as if she expected him to say something, before continuing briskly. "Well, anyway, we just got the news this morning, along with a note for you." She nodded at the lunch tray and Carrion gave it a cursory glance before focusing on Candy again.

Then his head whipped back toward the tray and he stared in disbelief. Obviously he'd been keeping his attention on his enemy, but how could he have missed _that_?

"Yeah, that was pretty much our reaction," Candy admitted, sounding as if she wasn't sure whether she wanted to copy Carrion's stunned silence or laugh at it.

Carrion ignored her in favor of staring at the "note" sitting so innocently on his tray. It was a piece of paper, folded in half, that was such a bright shade of yellow that it made his eyes sting. The writer had decorated it with a coat of glitter so thick that it might have blocked out a lesser color than the screaming yellow, and he could just make out a looping script in simple black ink. It took a moment to decipher the writing, and Carrion felt a wave of dread roll over him when he did.

_For dear Christopher_

Carrion finally dragged his gaze back to The Girl. In the back of his mind he hoped his horror didn't show in his expression, but thought it probably did.

"We've already read it," Candy told him, "and we expect that the directions are followed to the letter."

A second wave of dread at the thought of what those directions might be prevented him from sneering something about how very impolite it is to read someone else's mail and they really weren't setting a good example for him with that kind of behavior. He couldn't even bring himself to nod.

Candy seemed to realize she wouldn't be getting much of a response from Gorgossium's former prince, so she left him to discover his fate. "Good luck!" she called back as she shut the door.

Carrion heard the words but they barely registered, except perhaps as a mental note that the seed of self-doubt he'd seen in the aftermath of the Cricket Incident seemed to have been crushed. He was too busy contemplating the note. He knew who'd written it. Who else in the Abarat would use paper that color or such an unholy amount of glitter, let alone call the Lord of Midnight _Christopher_? No, there was only one person insane enough to do this. _I suppose once every five days is no longer often enough!_ Carrion thought irritably, staring at the note despite the headache he could feel being brought on by that shade of yellow.

He had to read it. He knew he did; The Girl had mentioned directions he had to follow, and even if that were not the case this message might contain something he could use. He knew all of that. And Christopher Carrion did _not_ want to touch that piece of paper.

Of course, it wasn't the dread stopping him, or the memory of those blasted questions. That would be weak and foolish. No, the fact was that no one could tell what materials That Idiot had access to because he claimed to be a therapist. Without even trying, Carrion could think of at least six very unpleasant mixtures that could be absorbed through the skin of a person handling coated paper. He was only being sensible, really.

An inquiring mew distracted him, and he looked down to see the kitten staring up at him curiously. A slow smirk spread across Carrion's expression. Here was the face of the man who'd planned Absolute Midnight, the domination of the entire Abarat, and the murder of a bride. The kitten blinked nervously and started to back away.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Candy joined John Mischief, his brothers, and Geneva Peachtree behind the kitchen mirror. "Message delivered,' she said with a grin, though she knew they'd witnessed the whole thing. "I haven't missed anything, have I?"

"No," said Geneva. "He's still staring at that paper like it's a gilleyant about to attack him."

"Frankly, I wouldn't touch that thing myself," John Mischief admitted, prompting a chorus of agreement from his brothers.

"Well, he doesn't have much-" Candy stopped midsentence, her grin falling away as if it had never been at the sight of Carrion's expression.

"Candy?" Mischief asked, turning to look at her with concern. "Something wrong?"

Candy dropped her eyes to the floor. She knew that look all too well. She'd seen it the Dead Man's House and on the _Wormwood_, and she'd held a tiny hope that she'd never see it again. "No, I'm fine," she said quietly. After all, what could be wrong? It wasn't as if anyone really expected her idea to work. It wasn't as if–

"What the Nefernow is he doing?" Geneva sounded more surprised and puzzled than alarmed, but it was enough to bring Candy's head up and her attention back to the present.

"What's he _doing_?"

"That's what I just said," Geneva muttered (though not unkindly), and the three companions stared into the kitchen, trying to understand what they saw.

_**-.-.-.-**_

"Cat," Carrion began in his best persuasive tones, "I have a little job for you. It's quite simply, really, and not at all dangerous." He paused to gauge the beast's reaction. It had stopped moving backwards, and he judged it to be within arm's reach if he had to lunge for it.

"You see that?" A wave of one hand indicated the tray on the table and the hideous note on top of it. The kitten craned its head in that general direction for a moment. Carrion didn't think it could have seen anything. All the better. "I have received a message from our mutual adversary, the therapist. Since you have thus far been willing to assist me in giving That Idiot some of his own medicine, you will have the privilege of being first to look at it. Consider it a reward, if you will."

And he reached down, lifted the tarrie by the scruff of its neck, and deposited it on the table so that its forepaws rested on the note. Unknown to him, the watchers behind the mirror gaped at his odd behavior.

"And don't even think of touching my food," Carrion, ordered, removing the plate from the tray just in case. (Although he had to wonder if the glitter might have contaminated his meal. He considered having the tarrie eat a bit of everything to see if it had been poisoned, but dismissed the idea. The food looked clean enough and he didn't want to give That Thing any ideas.) Then he sat down and watched to see if the cat went into convulsions or something equally dramatic.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The tarrie-kitten stared up at Snarl, wondering if he should be nervous. True, Snarl was speaking politely enough, but the look on his face… It made the tarrie very wary. Still, he did his best to figure out what Snarl wanted. He gathered that Leech had a message for Snarl, and Snarl wanted to reward the kitten by letting him see it first.

Well, the kitten wasn't so sure he'd call that a reward.

But then Snarl was picking him up and it was too late. He found himself sitting on the table with his paws on a horrifically bright and sparkly colored piece of paper. Tarrie-cats can see color as well as humans can, and he had to turn away, pulling his paws off and trying to blink away the paper's afterimage – almost as if he'd been staring into sunlight.

The tarrie looked over at Snarl, who was watching him closely, and returned his attention to the paper with more caution than before. Anything sent by Leech was probably very dangerous. He'd better check it out, make sure there was nothing that would harm him or Snarl. He reached out and tapped it with a paw. When nothing happened, he reached out again and let his paw rest there. Still, nothing happened.

However, the kitten remembered all too well what had happened when Snarl opened that box without checking the contents first. He was unbelievably glad no one had given him more crickets after _that_ little adventure. (Aside from Snarl's temper, he'd eaten so many that he was heartily sick of the taste.)

He picked his paw up and studied it, realizing with confusion that some of the paper's sparkliness had come off on him. He shook his paw but the sparklies remained and he stared at them in consternation. No way was he gonna risk trying to lick off something that'd been handled by Leech! He could only hope it'd wear off on its own.

Snarl made an impatient noise and he returned his attention to the paper.

The kitten realized that it was folded in half and decided that, while the outside seemed relatively harmless in spite of the contagious sparklies, he'd better check the inside too. He slid one paw into the fold, pressing down to hold it against the tray, and used his free paw to lift the other side.

He couldn't see any scary sparklies or other harmful-looking things, only something black and scribbly that was probably writing. The tarrie looked up at Snarl – it all seemed fine to him. Not much of a reward, though…

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion watched the cat study the note. As far as he could tell from both his and the tarrie's observations, the note was just what it seemed – a garish, glittery, otherwise harmless note. He nodded to the cat and reached out to pick up the message that could only be from Friendly.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_Dear Christopher,_

(Here Carrion gritted his teeth and resisted the desire to shred the note and burn its remains.)

_From the depths of my soul, I offer you my most sincere apologies._

(Here Carrion raised an eyebrow, not sure if this meant good news or bad news. With That Idiot it was difficult to tell.)

_You see, dear Christopher, a bit of an emergency has come up and I'm afraid I'll be unable to visit you and your dear little kitten tomorrow. I'm terribly sorry to set Session Three back, but unfortunately it's unavoidable._

_So that all progress is not lost, I request that you apply the Five Steps to that little temper tantrum you had a few days ago over crickets. Really, Christopher, can you continue to deny your problems with anger management now? Not to worry, though! You're quite safe in my hands. Don't forget to do your assignment!_

_Yours in joy and friendship,_

_Dr. B. E. Friendly_

_**-.-.-.-**_

Christopher Carrion, Lord of Midnight, Prince of Darkness, etc etc etc, could not stop the delighted grin spreading across his face.

A man of weaker will power would have leapt up and danced a jig around the kitchen with the tarrie-cat, and even Christopher Carrion had to work harder than usual to restrain himself from doing just that.

"That Idiot isn't coming tomorrow." Carrion had to whisper to keep from shouting. Even the sight of the kitten, looking up at him quizzically from the table, failed to dampen his good mood. He even smiled at it as he repeated the good news. "That Idiot isn't coming!"

_**-.-.-.-**_

Behind the mirror, all the John brothers were talking at once, with the result being that not even they could understand what they were saying. Geneva appeared to be shocked into silence, unable to believe it was even physically possible for a member of the Carrion family to smile. Admittedly, none of the people either guarding Carrion or overseeing his rehabilitation liked the therapist Candy had hired, so his absence tomorrow would be cause for celebration among many. She just hadn't thought that "many" extended so far (or so dramatically) as the therapist's patient.

Candy was quiet as well, but instead of shock she watched Carrion with a smile of her own.

_**-.-.-.-**_

For a moment, the kitten could only stare. Snarl…_smiling_? At _him_? Then the meaning of Snarl's words flashed through his mind.

It must be noted that aside from the occasional purr or soft meow, the tarrie lived very quietly. This was unusual for one so young, but being the roommate of a captive Prince of Darkness is very conducive to silence. However, there comes a time when silence is simply impossible.

The kitten let out a caterwaul of sheer joy and, unable to stay still, leapt to the floor. He charged around the table, looped through the living room and hall before returning to the kitchen, and there he skidded to a halt at Snarl's feet and – completely forgetting the man's aversion to such displays of affection – began twining around his legs, purring uproariously.

Leech wasn't coming! _Leech wasn't coming!_

_**-.-.-.-**_

Candy, Geneva, and the John brothers crowded at the mirror, craning their necks to see what could cause such a comical look of mixed surprise, confusion, and disgust on the face of their unwilling guest. At the sight of an adorable kitten happily rubbing itself against the Lord of Midnight's shins, Candy couldn't stifle a giggle. The brothers were pretty evenly split between sniggering and gaping, and Geneva grinned.

"I never thought I'd see the day – the great Christopher Carrion at the mercy of a little tarrie-cat," she said, shaking her head at the sheer absurdity of it all. "I was worried you'd lost your mind, Candy, but it's been almost three weeks and he hasn't killed or maimed that poor animal."

"Deaux-Deaux and Finnegan wouldn't believe this if they saw it," said Candy. Oh, what she'd give to see their faces! They'd be almost as amusing as Carrion's…

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion was frozen in horror, blissful state shattered. What the Nefernow was That cursed Thing _doing_? _Purring _at him and rubbing its filthy hide against his legs, leaving behind a trail of orange hair… What nefarious scheme was it employing now? Although…

The purring was really rather relaxing…and the constant brush of fur somewhat soothing…

Carrion snarled wordlessly and stepped sharply away from the beast. He glared at That Thing with narrowed eyes and bared teeth. "Do not dare to touch me again," he hissed.

The kitten blinked twice, looking up at him apologetically.

Carrion relaxed a little, though his eyes remained narrowed as he stared the tarrie down, making sure it was as contrite as it appeared. Finally he nodded once and the kitten brightened again. Carrion rolled his eyes, disgusted, but he was unwilling to let anything ruin his good mood for long.

He picked up the note again (carefully, letting it touch only as much skin as was absolutely necessary) and smirked at it. Even That Idiot's insipid "assignment" could barely touch his elation. Carrion spared a moment to knowledge that he had fallen far indeed if he was so pleased simply by the absence of an insane therapist, but only a moment. Even the admission that his captors' tactics of driving him insane were working was not enough to dampen his mood.

Life seemed better than it had in ages, and darker too, for the Prince of Gorgossium could almost see his island's sky.

That said, Carrion decided it would be best to get Friendly's request taken of while he retained enough of this feeling to make it bearable. And what had That Idiot written…? Ah, yes. "Apply the Five steps to that little temper tan-" Carrion stopped reading abruptly, scowling at the flamboyant signature as if it were the therapist himself. The Lord of Midnight does not have temper tantrums. With a derisive snort, he tossed the note onto the table. _And those Five Steps… What inanity!_

But he would comply. He had already been forced to abase himself in front of his jailers so often that this latest indignity could hardly do any more to ruin his reputation. And it was obvious by the smirk that slid onto his features that Christopher Carrion still had a measure of defiance in store.

He stalked into the living room to retrieve his journal, and on the way back to the kitchen he flipped through it, looking for a blank page to tear out. (No matter what The Girl's devious intentions had been regarding the book, it had become an acceptable medium for his schemes and he refused to sully it by leaving any material related to That Idiot inside.) To his consternation, he realized that the book was at least halfway filled. A slight frown creased Carrion's forehead as he wondered whether this was another sign that his resistance to The Girl's tactics was crumbling. He shook his head and tore out a page – no use thinking about that right now.

Right now, he had to find those idiotic Five Steps.

The first copy had spontaneously combusted from the sheer force of his rage, and although his captors were apparently willing to let that slide without comment, he'd received a second copy with his breakfast the next day. He had tossed the offending paper somewhere in the kitchen before settling down to eat, and it didn't take long to spot a tiny corner of neon pink paper poking out from behind a cabinet door. As Carrion bent to pull it out, he wondered if Friendly was going blind from staring at such outrageous shades of color. It would explain why he seemed impervious to all but Carrion's most murderous glares. At the very least, the man had to be colorblind.

A glance at the paper confirmed his memory of complete nonsense. "Be calm, communicate…" Carrion favored the Steps with an elegant sneer and started for the kitchen table – only to pause. The smirk returned. Oh, what was the Hereafter expression? Something about killing birds with a rock? No matter. He knew just how to complete this little exercise in idiocy _and _reclaim his armchair. This wasn't work for the kitchen.

Carrion strode purposefully into the living area with journal, paper, and Steps – hardly noticing the kitten trotting after him – and ensconced himself in his chair. The tarrie leaped onto the arm of the sofa and perched there, watching the Prince of Midnight with curious amber eyes. Carrion looked up at it and, after a moment's pause, he nodded slightly. The tarrie mewed once, clearly pleased. Carrion paused again, but he neither scowled nor rolled his eyes – the usual response to any indication of the cat's happiness.

Instead, he bent to his work, a gleam in his eyes that had rarely been seen since his imprisonment.

The kitten curled its tail over its paws, feeling that there was little that could happen to make this marvelous day any better.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The Lord of Gorgossium sat in his armchair in a light doze. The kitten napped often throughout the day and after a week or so (in which time he satisfied himself that the beast was sufficiently cowed that it would not attack him in his sleep), Carrion began to follow the animal's example. He never slept as long or often as the cat, but on days when no therapist or other calamitous event disturbed him… Well, even for Christopher Carrion there's only so much plotting that can be done in a day.

He was a light sleeper under the best circumstances, but his current situation assured that he was rarely far from wakefulness. A few minutes before his third meal of the day was due to arrive, Carrion's eyes opened. They flicked from the kitten – also just waking – to the general surroundings. Satisfied that he was alone but for the cat and his territory undisturbed (though he hadn't expected to find anything out of place – he'd have awakened if any intruder had entered), Carrion started to stand and changed his mind.

He settled back in his chair with a hint of a smirk playing about his lips. He had a feeling that The Girl and her spies had watched him complete his "assignment." He thought she might bring him his food again to retrieve it. If a guard came as usual, there was no need to rise; he wasn't particularly hungry. _But_…

The hint of a smirk solidified and there was a predatory gleam in Carrion's eyes.

If _she _came, he would certainly go to greet her as any polite host would. And then he would simply sit back and enjoy her reaction. Carrion privately (and not a little smugly) thought that he could predict it almost to her exact words. And if she managed to surprise him, well, it would only be all the more amusing.

There was a knock on the door – _her_ knock.

Carefully schooling his features to show none of his anticipation, Carrion rose to meet his enemy.

The tarrie-kitten watched Carrion's stride warily. No human would be able to tell that the Prince of Darkness felt anything more or less than the usual apathy or slight irritation, but the kitten, like all tarries, was very attuned to body language, no matter how subtle – its "roommate's" in particular. Carrion was hunting.

It jumped off the couch and followed him, wondering who the man's prey was this time.

_**-.-.-.-**_

By the time Candy opened the door and stepped into the hall, Carrion was standing near the table, arms folded over his chest, stance relaxed. The hideous note lay on the tray in a pile of glitter (which Carrion would've sworn had multiplied of its own will), and a piece of more modest paper was tucked inside. Carrion noticed that his opponent's eyes went immediately to the note and paper upon entering, showing no sign of surprise. This confirmed his suspicions that they'd been keeping a particularly close watch on him.

Candy, meanwhile, actually was somewhat surprised – not by the paper, of course, but by the lack of hostility on Carrion's gaze or posture. If only she'd known what that suspicious neutrality concealed.

"Two visits in one day," Carrion commented mildly. "I would say it's a pleasure, but…" He gave a slight shrug as he trailed off, implying that she knew very well what he was too polite to say.

"The same to you, Mr. Carrion," Candy replied, smiling. As barbs went, that one was fairly mild. "We saw that you immediately went to work on Dr. Friendly's assignment and I wanted to commend your enthusiasm."

"Oh, I could hardly contain myself." His sincere tone barely concealed the sarcasm beneath – just as he intended. Let her think him irritated by her comment. He didn't want her to realize yet how close to the truth his response was.

"Did you finish it?" Candy asked, now more businesslike than taunting. At Carrion's nod, she continued. "Good. I'll just take it now then."

It took every ounce of will power he possessed for the Lord of Midnight to retain his nonchalant pose as she reached for the note. _No! She can't take it away, read it elsewhere! _Beneath his calm exterior, his mind raced. _But how can I convince her to stay without raising her suspicions?_

_**-.-.-.-**_

The kitten had watched it all curiously. He hadn't had the chance to greet the Nice Girl properly that afternoon so he'd wanted to run to her when she returned, but he thought it might upset Snarl. Snarl had some sort of plan unfolding and it wouldn't be good if the tarrie did something to ruin.

But when he realized that the Nice Girl was about to leave, he couldn't let her go without saying hello. After all, she seemed fond of him, and it would be nice to have someone pet him a little. He'd grown up with several siblings and people who were fond of tarries, so the lack of physical contact over the past few weeks wasn't much fun.

Throwing his regard for Snarl's plans to the wind, the kitten bounded forward to rub against the Nice Girl's legs, much as he had done earlier to Snarl. He heard her make a soft noise of happiness, and then she picked him up and smiled at him. He stretched forward to touch his nose to hers, making her laugh. Then she pulled a chair out and sat down, settling him in her lap.

The kitten tuned out everything else, purring loudly as she stroked his fur and rubbed his ears. He'd been wrong after all – the marvelous day had just gotten much better!

_**-.-.-.-**_

Christopher Carrion watched with great relief – and only slightly less surprised amazement – as That Thing quite cleverly tricked The Girl into staying put. Obviously he'd underestimated the tarrie's ability to manipulate people – people who, of course, had weaker wills than Gorgossium's prince. He couldn't help a feeling of grudging respect for its talent, even if That Thing had tried to use the same talent against him.

What truly perplexed him was why the kitten would help him when there was no therapist to oppose and he'd made it painfully clear that he planned on devising nine wonderfully painful ways to kill it when he was released. But his speculations would have to wait until later.

"I guess I can stay a little longer," Candy was saying, obviously speaking to the cat. She sat down, grinning like a fool at the animal in her lap.

"My pleasure knows no bounds," Carrion said dryly, knowing she'd ignore the little jibe.

Candy reached out to pull the piece of paper out of the note, pausing midway to look up at Carrion. "You're welcome to sit, you know."

About to refuse, Carrion couldn't help a tiny smirk as he changed his mind and sat in the other chair. "Whatever the lady pleases," he murmured. Though he kept his tone polite, she immediately picked up on the mockery of her friends' title for her and frowned.

Carrion gave her his best innocent look, causing Candy to roll her eyes and ignore him, reading the paper instead.

The Lord of Midnight made himself comfortable. This was going to be interesting.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_Step One: Consciously determine to be calm_

(Here Candy paused. Not looking at the rest of Carrion's crisp, surprisingly neat handwriting, she wondered (not for the first time) if maybe choosing Friendly in particular as Carrion's therapist might have been a mistake. She knew he was just the sort of person that would push all of Carrion's buttons, but had thought – and still thought – that was a good thing. It was times like this, though, when she wondered if Friendly might be pushing too hard. Shoving away her doubt, Candy took a deep breath and read on.)

_Step One: Consciously determine to be calm_

_When one is angry, one should not react but think, and only then respond appropriately. Several days ago, I personally failed to think before reacting._

(Here Candy was forced to pause again, this time in shock. Lordy Lou, had Friendly actually managed to brainwash Carrion?)

_When a box appeared on my table, I failed to think that it might be another method of torment devised by my captors. Because I reacted instead, this latest scheme was effective and I was assaulted by crickets._

(Here Candy was shocked again, but it was swiftly replaced by irritation. No. Not brainwashed after all. Pity.)

_Later, when I decided to retire for the night and realized my bed was infested with insects, I reacted again, responding to the threat to my person. I didn't think that I should appeal to my kind captors for assistance, or that perhaps the crickets were meant to be there much as the tarrie-cat is. Had I thought first, I would not have ended up with cricket ashes befouling my entire room. Instead, the ashes would have been in one central location and therefore more easily disposed of._

(Here Candy found herself caught between – to her horror – anger and amusement. Anger at his flippancy, amusement at – well, at his flippancy. The tiny prick of guilt at the reference to his "kind captors" was easily squashed.)

_Step Two: Communicate_

_It is essential that when one is upset by someone, one must tell that person and calmly explain one's feelings. I must learn to express myself better._

(Here Candy was warier, guessing that despite the second good start the content would be no better.)

_When Miss Quackenbush and her cohorts confronted me, I did not clearly express myself. I attempted to show only calm, and therefore did not express to my jailers the strength of my feelings on being assaulted by insects. I did not express to Hob my sincere desire to leave him to the tender care of the Requiax. I did not express to the geshrat my utter scorn for his blind, slavish loyalty to Miss Quackenbush. I did not express to Jimothi Tarrie how much I detest the presence of his repellant kin. I did not express to Miss Quackenbush my utter loathing of her prison, her crickets, and herself. Because of my failure to clearly express myself, my jailers failed to understand my position, leaving both parties trapped in the cycle of anger._

(Here Candy realized that the paper was crinkling because she clenched it so tightly. She tried to force herself to relax, to let go of her anger at Carrion's abuse of her friends, and stifle the little twinge of hurt at his professed loathing. She was only mostly successful.)

_Step Three: Remove yourself from the scene until you can respond without anger_

_When one is angry, one must remove oneself from the situation in order to think and communicate without anger. I did not remove myself, thus allowing the conflict to escalate._

(Here Candy found herself glaring again. At least this time she wasn't mangling the paper without realizing it. It wasn't as if he'd wanted anything _but_ escalation in their "conflict" a few days ago! The self-righteous anger was enough to smother the small voice softly reminding her that, no matter what he wanted, it wasn't as if there was anywhere for Carrion to remove himself to. …Nearly enough, anyway.)

_Obviously I should have left the vicinity in order to relax and allow myself to think clearly. As there are numerous other places for me to go, I have no excuse for remaining where I was. Furthermore, I should have found someone unbiased to reach out to. Just as there are many places I can remove myself to, there are many people I can confide in. I clearly have no excuse for not following this step._

(Here Candy had to pause again. The small voice was more insistent now and she scowled, annoyed with herself. Her conscience had no reason to pester her now, not considering how little Carrion had to go through compared to what so many people had suffered because of him. And she was trying to save his sorry life in spite of it! There was no reason her to feel guilty. None whatsoever.)

_Step Four: Frequently take time for yourself_

_When one is angry (and even when one is not) it is important to take time for oneself – to take a walk, to read, or simply to reflect. It's all right to feel good about oneself._

_For the past nineteen days in particular, I have not taken any time for myself besides the occasional few minutes of writing. Unfortunately, I have not taken any of the numerous opportunities I've had for a stroll or read any of the books I have on hand. This is clearly detrimental to my mental health and ability to manage my anger, and I shall rectify it immediately._

(Here Candy tried to stifle a sigh. Didn't he ever tire of playing the martyr? All right, so the current arrangement weren't exactly on par with the fortress he was used to, but it was better than dying or wasting away in a dungeon! The self-pity here was laid on way too thick. She ignored the small voice. It was repeating the line about books contemplatively.)

_Step Five: Look for the positives_

(Here Candy just stared at the words for a moment. She'd forgotten that particular step. This wasn't going to be pretty.)

_As the esteemed Dr. Friendly told me, don't dwell on the negatives. Learn to be forgiving. This is difficult, but we need to start by learning to forgive ourselves._

_In writing this little assignment for the therapist, I took a long look at my time here, searching for positives. In my near-three weeks here, I have focused entirely on the negatives, which is unhealthy and not at all conducive to better anger management. Therefore, here are the more positive memories of my stay thus far: sitting and writing without interruption, eating, sleeping, not seeing the cat for several hours, the hour I was here before the cat arrived, a day without seeing anyone but the occasional guard, retrieving my smyrion fruit from the cat, burning invading crickets to ash. They may seem simple, but compared to being mauled by the cat, humiliated by my captors, assaulted by insects, having my past and present manhandled by a lunatic, and having my present and future dictated by a group of people who solely mean me harm, they are truly quite positive. I simply need to remember them more often, and learn to forgive myself for dwelling on the negatives. This will be the first step toward forgiving my captors for creating those negatives in the first place._

_**-.-.-.-**_

That was the last straw. Carrion could see it clearly and it took a lot to keep his self-satisfied pleasure at his ability to rile her from showing when fury flashed in The Girl's eyes.

Candy jerked to her feet, spilling a long-forgotten (and quite startled) kitten to the floor, and glared down at the Lord of Midnight.

"What is _this_?" she snapped, waving the paper under his nose like someone rubbing a puppy's nose in a mess it had made. "You were given clear instructions by a professional therapist, and by mocking them you are undermining what little progress you might have made, either with him or in the eyes of your 'kind captors,' as you so charmingly put it."

Carrion feigned innocence while inwardly he laughed at how easy it was to goad her. He remained seated, allowing her to stand over him despite the fact that it went against his every instinct to let someone have even the appearance of power over him. This was why he'd almost refused her invitation to sit, but with him seated it made her look all the more out of control. Carrion spread his hands innocently. "Why, Miss Quackenbush," he began, using a soft, soothing tone to deliberately contrast her sharp one, "you wrong me. I have followed Tha- the therapist's instructions to the letter. It seems to me that his steps are ludicrous, particularly in my situation, and the incident in question an especially bad example to apply it to, but who am I argue?" He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands loosely in his lap, looking perfectly at ease. "As you said yourself, he_ is_ a professional."

Candy didn't seem at all taken in by his reasonable façade. She crossed her arms, one hand still clenching the paper, anger in every stiff line of her body. Carrion was pleased. He'd finally pushed her hard enough to get a proper response.

"Don't you dare," Candy hissed. "You mock everyone and everything here – don't pretend to be respectful. You aren't even trying to take advantage of this opportunity!"

"Opportunity?" Carrion murmured, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes! Opportunity! You have a chance to prove that you can be trusted not to run off and wreak havoc on the Abarat again, to redeem yourself. I _know_ how horrible a person you are but even you deserve a second chance – even if you're determined to waste it! And I'm the one who petitioned to get you this chance. If anything, you shouldn't hate me – you should be grateful!"

"Grateful," said Carrion, not so much questioning as disbelieving.

"Grateful," Candy repeated firmly. "Everyone else was all for executing you or keeping you locked up for the rest of your life. Maybe I'm crazy for objecting to that, because heaven only knows you've committed enough atrocities to deserve your death in turn, but-"

"My death?" Though spoken softly, his words halted her speech. Carrion decided to relinquish the chair after all, standing up to stare coldly down at The Girl and stepping forward so there was barely a foot of space between them. To her credit, she didn't back away. "My death," he repeated.

"Yes," Candy snapped, raising her chin defiantly as she regained her voice. "For murder, torture, unleashing the sacbrood, planning to unleash the Requiax-"

"Do you know," Carrion interrupted again, "that some might consider death preferable to denying the most basic elements of their personality?" He paused, but she didn't immediately launch back into her tirade or threaten to call the guards. He thought that the trace of surprise in her eyes might have something to do with it. "Or that there are those who become so blinded by hatred and the desire for revenge that their death seems a small price to pay if they could only the object of their hatred first?" He paused again, rewarded by the smallest flash of fear in her expression. "We both know that no matter what I do, no matter how I abase myself, nothing will ever be enough to satisfy you and your friends. Perhaps your little plan would work with someone who had a lost trait that could be redeemed, but everyone knows that neither you nor your friends have ever seen a redeemable trait in me in the first place. All this" – he indicated the situation in general with a slight wave of one hand – "is just a long, elaborate charade to satisfy your own conscience."

For several long moments the two of them stared at each other – Carrion cold but matter-of-fact, his very lack of anger proving his acceptance of the fact and daring her to challenge it; Candy caught by his gaze and by the conflicting morass of emotions (surprise, denial, anger, guilt) created by his simple declaration.

It can't be said how long they might have stayed that way had not one confused little tarrie-cat broken the silence with a concerned mew. They both looked down at the kitten and then Candy took a hasty step back. Carrion allowed himself a moment of dark amusement that even when he was technically her prisoner he could still intimidate her with simply his presence.

"You have a point," Candy said, managing to keep the fact that she was clearly flustered from showing in her voice. Carrion had to give her credit for that much, at least, but he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the thought that she would admit to agreeing with anything he said.

She smoothed out the now rather crumpled-looking paper with Carrion's assignment and folded it neatly, then met his eyes calmly. "Dr. Friendly _is_ a professional. I'll leave the evaluation of your work to him."

And without another word she turned and left.

Carrion stared at the closed door for a moment. Then he shook his head slowly. Somehow he'd thought the amusement of provoking The Girl would last longer, but instead he felt rather – hollow. No homicidal rage, no devious plots, no sadistic glee at his enemy's discomfort… It was an empty triumph. Carrion wasn't one to lie to himself – to others, certainly, and with frequency, but not himself. Especially not after Princess Boa. Despite this, he'd often entertained plans for what he would do after his "rehabilitation." And that was, essentially, lying to himself. He supposed it was some sort of psychological trick to keep him from giving up, but throwing the impossibility of his freedom in The Girl's face meant that he threw it in his own face as well.

Carrion snorted softly at his own foolishness and shook his head again. What did it matter? He would go on as he had for as long as he could. He left his dinner on the table, not feeling hungry, and retreated to his armchair with none of the energy of his earlier stride, wondering just where it had gone wrong.

_Ah. Of course._ He'd let himself become angry at her casual dismissal of his life and arrogant assumption that she was doing him a favor. He should have stayed calm, twisted her words, aggravated her without allowing himself to be effected. Instead, she now knew that _he _knew it was all a charade.

And Carrion had to wonder, now that they knew he saw through them, if they would see any reason to continue that charade.

A noise that was almost a yowl interrupted his (rather depressing) musings, and Carrion was on his feet again almost without thinking. That was the tarrie, and it sounded distressed. Carrion paused. And smirked. And strolled into the kitchen, where he froze in horror.

The kitten was backed up against the cabinet. Its ears were flat against its head, its fur stood on end, and its eyes were wide with a horror identical to Carrion's. It was surrounded, but for a few inches on any side, by glitter – glitter which was heaped a good six inches high on the tabletop, completely burying Carrion's meal, and had spilled over to cover both chairs and a good part of the floor. Apparently, it really could multiply of its own accord.

Carrion swore. The kitten uttered a pathetic mew. Carrion swore again.

Then he walked toward the kitten, skirting the glitter, taking great pains not to let a speck of it touch him or his clothing. When he was as close to the cat as he could get without becoming contaminated, there was still at least two feet of glitter separating them. Carrion looked from the pleading animal to the glitter to his long sleeves and muttered a few more choice words. But the cat had offered its services of its own will to assist in his plot against The Girl, and even if it hadn't it would be difficult for even the Lord of Midnight to leave anything to the mercy of the glitter.

He crouched down and slowly reached out a hand. "Don't move," he ordered.

Unfortunately, the kitten was not about to be patient while Carrion tried to get a good grip on the scruff of its neck – not while it was surrounded by glitter that might at any moment swallow it whole. It leaped wildly, landing in the vicinity of Carrion's elbow, and quickly raced up the man's arm to perch, quivering, on his shoulder.

Carrion pressed a hand to his temples. At least the beast's claws hadn't pierced his skin, only scratched it. He stood more quickly than he should have with a kitten on his shoulder, half-hoping it would be dislodged and fall into the glitter he'd saved it from, but the kitten stayed put. Carrion heaved an exasperated sigh.

"Don't expect to stay there, you cursed Thing," he grumbled as he headed back to the living room. "Any favor I might have owed you for your assistance is more than paid."

The kitten purred gratefully and dared to rub its head briefly against Carrion's.

Christopher Carrion, Prince of Darkness, Lord of Midnight, Master of Gorgossium, etc. etc. etc., merely scowled in response.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_And so, even the best day of my imprisonment is sullied. I wonder, will The Girl and her cohorts believe it's worth it to continue this game of theirs? I haven't decided whether I would rather get it over with or prolong my life these few days longer._

_And my kitchen is buried under That Idiot's self-reproducing glitter, of all things._

_That is one mess I will _not_ be cleaning up._

_But I shall dwell on today's better moments. Knowing that, no matter what the fools keeping me captive decide, I have almost a week before being subjected to That Idiot's insanity… That itself is cause for celebration._

_Also, it seems I am beginning to corrupt That Thing._

_I never considered this course of action before, assuming that it had already given its loyalty wholeheartedly to Jimothi Tarrie, but the way it kept The Girl from leaving seems to be a mark of my influence on it. True, it later ignored my commands and left cat hair all over my shoulder and scratches along my arm, but I daresay it has a sliver of potential. Wouldn't poor Jimothi and that silly girl be surprised to see their precious kitten a minion of Midnight…_

_Now there's an idea with merit._


	11. Ch10: In Which There's a Great Deal of::

Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

**Spoilers: **There is, unfortunately, no third book yet, and therefore I cannot spoil it.

**Warnings and Pairings: **Carrion might seem a little out of character. However, I believe it's a fairly appropriate OOCness and my reasons for thinking so will be given within the chapter. (Aren't I clever?) Um, CandyCarrion or CandyHob or one-sided attachments could all work here. But they don't have to! Once again, read it as you will.

**Notes: **I'm hoping I managed to keep Finnegan Hob in character this chapter. Carrion I'm not so worried about because I have the extenuating circumstances excuse, but let me know if Hob's just not working for you. Finally, **CCTA has broken 100 reviews! WOOHOO!** I love you guys for that. : )

**Dedicated to…** Red Stockings, of course! She so very generously drew a picture for CCTA. And it's awesome! (huge grin) I'm so happy. You can find a link to her excellent work either from my profile or through her homepage. Go see it! You'll love it! (But, um, anyone else out there who's artistically inclined… I'd still love to see what you've got! (winkwinknudgenudge)) Red Stockings, thanks again for the fantastic drawing! Hope you enjoy your chapter!

* * *

Chapter Ten: In Which There is a Great Deal of Angst and Carrion Implements the Five Steps

**Journal Entry 16: Day 21**

_I am still reveling in the utter lack of therapy or other intrusion on my solitude._

_Well, apart from the odd speck of glitter that occasionally appears, but those are swiftly dealt with._

_Apparently, this glitter truly was a torture device of That Idiot's, for The Girl and her coconspirators seemed just as surprised and horrified by its spread as I was. For once, I was not forced to clean a mess that occurred through no fault of my own. Four guards and the geshrat were sent in to subdue the vile stuff and it still took them over an hour to eradicate it._

_I found this both reassuring and highly amusing – the former because it is a strong indication that The Girl plans to continue this farce instead of sitting back and letting me asphyxiate in glitter (a convenient way to dispose of me without effort); the latter because I have seen the geshrat Malingo face down my dearly departed grandmother's sorcerers and stitchlings without flinching, but That Idiot's glitter proved more difficult to destroy._

_Oh, how I wish I could have set it loose on the Hag. _

_**-.-.-.-**_

Christopher Carrion paused in his musings to savor the mental image. It was right up there with the memory of the time The Girl had tightened the leash on Hob. Who could guess that one might gather fond memories while imprisoned?

His smirk faded into a pensive expression as his thoughts moved on. Today was his twenty-first day of rehabilitation and therefore he could expect another missive from The Girl. _I daresay I will finally know for certain whether or not she's given up on this little experiment of hers,_ he mused. _I still haven't quite decided which I'd prefer…_

_**-.-.-.-**_

The tarrie-kitten slunk stealthily into the room. His paws were light as air when they touched the ground, and he made no more noise than a wisp of wind on a still summer day. He was Silence.

Sticking to the darker parts of the room, staying low to the ground, the tarrie-kitten crept on. The black stripes of an adult were beginning to show in his fiery fur and made him one with patterns of dark and light. He was Shadow.

He had travelled behind the couch and now peered carefully around the corner. Slowly, he scanned the room. There! The Enemy! He froze, staring fixedly at the tiny, telltale glint. Neither whisker nor tailtip twitched. He was Stillness.

The Enemy did not move – it hadn't spotted him. Now, the hard part. He slipped closer to Snarl's chair, drawing on every ounce of his abilities as he stalked the Enemy who had invaded his home. Finally, he was close enough. He crouched, gathering his strength – and _sprang!_

Claws outstretched, he landed hard on his foe. It fought back fiercely, but he hissed and clawed and wriggled and bit until it _died._

For a moment, the kitten lay there, stretched out on his side and panting a little from his battle. Then he rolled to his paws and looked up at Snarl.

Snarl glowered.

The kitten began washing his flank, immensely proud of himself. After all, he'd just saved Snarl's life from the evil sparkly stuff. He had Stalked, he had Fought, and he had Won! He purred happily to himself as he put his fur back in order. This was a _good_ game!

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion scowled down at the animal by his feet. That Thing looked particularly pleased with itself, though Carrion couldn't see what it had to be proud of.

After the glitter had swamped the kitchen and he'd been forced to rescue the beast, it had refused to leave his shoulder except to curl up next to him on the arm of his chair. (He absolutely drew the line at curling up on his lap.) The next day, however, That Thing must have regretted showing so much dependence on the Lord of Midnight, for its behavior was particularly reprehensible. It took to leaping – often near or toward Carrion – for no apparent reason other than perhaps to provoke or unnerve him.

The first time he'd seen the cat "attacking" out of the corner of his eye, he had whirled around, automatically preparing to retaliate. Only a quick realization that it was That Thing and it was _not_ attacking him had saved the kitten from meeting the same fate as the crickets.

Throughout yesterday and this morning, That Thing had periodically stalked him. Carrion was becoming increasingly immune – only twitching slightly instead of jumping – but also increasingly irritated. Its scare tactics were ineffective, so why wouldn't That Thing just stop?

Of course, there was always the possibility that these false attacks were an attempt to train Carrion to ignore the stalking and leaping, only to be caught by surprise when the _real_ attack occurred, so he wasn't about to let his guard down.

Carrion grumbled irritably to himself and was about to flip through his Midnight blueprints again (the rough sketches he'd started out with were becoming more and more detailed) when there came the perfunctory knock of a guard at the door. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. Insane therapists, pouncing tarries, imbecilic guards… If it wasn't one interruption, it was another. He closed the book, stood, and headed for the kitchen, the tarrie-cat bouncing happily at his heels.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Candy and Finnegan stood outside the door to Carrion's rooms as Darug (one of the guards, a fellow from Qualm Hah) went inside with Candy's weekly letter and more prey for the tarrie-kitten. He was back out in a moment – for, like anyone sane, he had no desire to remain in the presence of even an imprisoned Christopher Carrion longer than necessary – and bowed slightly to the two of them before leaving.

"Remember to wait until Malingo lets us know that he's finished reading it," Candy said absently.

"I will. You've only reminded me three times!" Finnegan managed to sound lightly teasing, but it was clear to Candy that he was starting to get a little exasperated.

"Sorry!" She reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder in another silent apology. "I'm just a little – well, a little nervous, I guess, not knowing how he'll take it."

"Doesn't matter," said Finnegan, frowning. "I can handle whatever tantrum he throws, especially with Malingo's help."

Candy bit back a sigh, patted his shoulder, and stepped away slightly. She knew Finnegan was under a lot of stress. This was the man who'd spent years hunting down every last dragon because one had killed the woman he loved. Now, the man who everyone knew had ordered the attack was sitting in an armchair just a room away and she wasn't letting him retaliate.

Now Candy did sigh. Of all the people who wanted Christopher Carrion dead, she'd managed to convince the ones that mattered to at least give her idea a chance. Finnegan had held out against her calm arguments, angry lectures, and downright pleading the longest, and she knew that he still didn't believe Carrion had ever been or would ever be anything but a heartless murderer.

Sometimes, she wondered if he was right. Sometimes, she wondered why she'd ever thought "hey! Rehabilitation! It could work!" She just hoped she wasn't alienating her closest friends in the Abarat to try to help a man who neither wanted nor deserved it.

_Well, there are still ten days left,_ Candy reminded herself. _A lot can happen in ten days._

_**-.-.-.-**_

Meanwhile, Carrion was watching with a small grimace of disgust as a guard set on his table a platter of small, dead, shrew-like rodents. The letter sat modestly to one side. Carrion sneered. The guard needed no dismissal – he was already on his way out the door. As it shut behind him, Carrion stared at the letter.

It looked so very ordinary. Harmless. Rather like The Girl that had written it. But The Girl was far more dangerous than her appearance would indicate, and Carrion couldn't rid himself of a niggling apprehension that her letter would be just like her. Then, with a curious mew, That Thing brushed against his leg.

Irritated with himself, irritated with the cat, and irritated with the world in general, Carrion snatched up one of the dead rodents and flung it. It bounced off the kitten's flank, the kitten flinched in surprised, and then it instinctively pounced on its meal.

Carrion frowned. Another pile of bones and bloody fur-scraps he'd have to clean up. He dumped the rest of the shrew-like critters in the kitten's dish. Hopefully the vile beast would stay there to eat, leaving any remains in the dish. It would make cleaning up after it much easier. That done, any other delay in opening the letter would be stalling, and the Lord of Midnight does not delay confrontations. Carrion sat, his back to the mirror, and scowled at the letter.

…Yep, definitely stalling.

He decided, however, that this one time it was excusable.

Christopher Carrion was a man not unaccustomed to stress. This might seem odd for someone as confident and powerful as Gorgossium's prince, but somehow stressful situations often encroached on his life. There were the everyday stresses of dealing with minions who rarely had more than half a brain and almost never bothered to use it (case in point: Mendelson Shape). The Hag, may her rotten soul be eternally tormented, induced stress with her mere existence, let alone when she deigned to speak with him.

Then there were occasional periods of great stress caused by spurned love, silly girls ruining his plots, or attempts on his life. These, while often painful in more ways than one, were at least usually things he could do something about.

Finally, there were situations which caused lengthy, extreme amounts of stress that he could do nothing about, such as being locked up for weeks on end with a vicious Thing and a psychotic pseudo-therapist entirely at the mercy of his archenemy and The Girl.

Frankly, even the Prince of Darkness has limits, and he had a sinking feeling that this letter would only make life worse. Huzzah.

Carrion let out a nearly inaudible sigh. _Enough. Best to get it over with_. And he unfolded the letter and began to read.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_Dear Mr. Carrion,_

_For the past three weeks you have managed to successfully care for the kitten in terms of basic physical needs. However, particularly after so long, this is simply no longer adequate. You __must__ interact more with the kitten. Play with him. Talk to him. Acknowledge his existence! (In a __positive__ way, Mr. Carrion.)_

_Additionally, you are still refusing to cooperate with Dr. Friendly. Throwing out the therapist responsible for attesting to your ability to manage your anger is __not__ the best way to go about securing your release. Although his methods may seem unconventional, you have to cooperate with him if you don't want to go back to prison._

_In addition to that, you used magic for the second time when it has been made extremely clear to you that it is __not__allowed__, not for any reason. Although it was decided (after a lengthy debate) not to immediately terminate your chance at rehabilitation, you will face consequences for your actions. From now on, someone will come to your rooms after every piece of correspondence to make sure you understand exactly what it expected of you. This will prevent the possibility of any further misunderstandings._

_Finally, you told me that you didn't think we would ever genuinely consider releasing you. That's not true, Carrion! Whatever you put into this rehabilitation is what you'll get out of it. If you don't listen to us, if you don't listen to Dr. Friendly, if you don't try to really care for that kitten, you'll get __nothing__. But if you can prove that you're making an effort by listening to us and Friendly, and caring for the kitten, we can help you go __home__. You're just being stubborn out of some stupid sense of pride when you could be helping your case. __Please__, Carrion, just __try__._

_Yours sincerely,  
__Candy Quackenbush_

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion stared at the letter. He expected that he would start seeing red any second now – after all, how dare The Girl address him so disrespectfully? – and that the familiar rage he associated with everything about this place would come rushing over him, expected that the indignation and fury would surge through him soon.

Except that it didn't.

He didn't feel anger or…anything. Just a gaping chasm of emptiness.

He thought vaguely that he ought to be disturbed by this lack of reaction, but he couldn't even feel that. He stared at the letter blankly a moment longer, then dropped it to the table. He stood up and tottered into the living room, feeling oddly disconnected from his body.

Christopher Carrion collapsed onto the couch, closed his eyes, and let his mind drift away.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The kitten peered uneasily after Snarl. For the first time since he'd met Snarl, the kitten was worried about him. He'd sat under the table as Snarl looked at the paper which smelled vaguely of the Nice Girl. Since these papers tended to make Snarl bristle with irritation, he'd wanted to know as soon as possible just how bad a mood Snarl would be in after finishing with this one. Unbeknownst to him, the tarrie was expecting the same reactions as Snarl, and both were disappointed.

The kitten watched, bemused, as Snarl left the kitchen without a sound. He huddled there under the table indecisively for a moment before plucking up the courage to see if something was wrong with Snarl. He padded quietly into the other room and saw Snarl sprawled face-down on the sofa. One foreleg was under his head and the other hung limply down to the floor. The tarrie kneaded his paws nervously. This was _weird_.

After a moment's hesitation, he stepped nearer and batted lightly at Snarl's paw. There was no response. Trying again, he nudged it with his head. This too failed to rouse Snarl. Maybe he was asleep? But no - Snarl never slept on the couch, nor did he ever fall asleep so quickly. Something was wrong. For a while, the tarrie stared. It just wasn't right to leave Snarl like that, but how could he help?

An idea suddenly glimmered faintly in his thoughts, and the kitten stepped forward to walk under Snarl's paw, almost as if Snarl was petting him. He repeated the process several times and fell into a pattern, walking back and forth under Snarl's paw, hoping that the contact could get Snarl back to his old self (or at least get him angry enough to react).

And then, miraculously, after several minutes of diligent work, Snarl's paw twitched! The kitten froze in surprise, and then he felt Snarl gently stroke his head. The kitten could hardly believe it. Snarl - _his_ Snarl - was _petting_ him? There was only one thing to do.

The kitten purred.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Behind the kitchen mirror, four guards kept a bored watch on their prisoner as he opened his mail. (Actually, they weren't paying much attention at all, because they were only really there as back-up in case the famed Lord of Midnight unleashed his equally famous temper.) When Carrion dropped the letter with no visible reaction, they looked at each other in surprise. No paterzem exchanged hands – no one had expected _nothing_ from the volatile man. When Carrion left the kitchen, they shrugged to themselves and continued trying to solve a few pages out of a Commexo Crossword Collection.

Malingo, on the other hand, frowned uneasily and decided not to signal Finnegan just yet. It was always better to err on the side of caution when dealing with a man like Carrion, and after a quick word with the guards he headed over to the living room mirror.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Jimothi Tarrie and Tev Cerra were chatting with the ease of an old friendship when Carrion suddenly entered the room before them and practically flopped onto the couch. The two exchanged glances, both hearing the same mental alarm bells go off, and then turned as Malingo joined them.

"What's he–?" The question died before it was even voiced as the geshrat took in the scene before them. "What happened?"

"He seems to have collapsed," Jimothi answered, surprise coloring his voice. "I suggest you fetch Miss Quackenbush. She'd want to see this, I think."

Malingo had been thinking the same thing and left quickly. Meanwhile, Jimothi studied the form on the couch. It would certainly make things simpler if the former Prince of Midnight lost his mind or his life on his own, but somehow… Well, somehow the limp figure just didn't sit quite right with Jimothi. About to comment on this to Tev, who'd been surprisingly silent, he was distracted by Malingo's return, Candy and Finnegan at his side.

Candy immediately went up to the glass, only to be confronted with a seemingly lifeless Carrion and a tarrie-kitten rubbing against his hand. "What _happened_?"

"I'm not sure," Jimothi admitted. "He went into the kitchen, presumably to read your letter, and returned looking…"

"Furious?" Candy suggested as Jimothi trailed off.

"Blank," Tev snapped. "Empty. Not entirely there."

"Really?" Candy was surprised, both by the answer and by the vet's irritable tone. "That's…strange."

"What's strange is that it hasn't happened before," Tev countered.

"Why do you say that?" Jimothi asked.

"I've seen this sort of reaction," said the vet, still watching Carrion. "Usually when I've been treating a very ill pet for a very long time. People go through so much fear, worry, grief, and so forth that sometimes something snaps for a while and they feel _nothing_."

"But grief…?" Candy began, puzzled.

"Why not?" Tev snapped again, this time turning to face them. "It needn't be grief that does it. Any strong emotion over a long period of time will do, but the most common ones are grief, fear, and anger – all of which Carrion's dealing with all the time."

"All the–?"

"Yes! Have any of you seen him relax for more than a few minutes at a time? Not even when he's asleep, I shouldn't wonder. You've got a man in there who's angry nearly all the time because he sees this as insulting and pointless, afraid nearly all the time (though he'd never admit it) because he thinks he won't get out of here alive or free, and grieving for the home he's lost. That Hag destroyed everything associated with him, remember? On top of all that, he's obviously never developed any response to stress except anger, which he can't express here. If you were in his place, you might feel a little overwhelmed too!"

It was one of the longest speeches either Candy or Jimothi had ever heard from the vet, and this was saying something given the length of his and Jimothi's acquaintance. Tev blinked at his speechless companions and turned back to the window, though not before Candy saw a light flush begin to creep across his cheeks. "The kit has more sense than you lot," he muttered gruffly, a little embarrassed by his sudden outburst but not regretting a word of it.

Finnegan Hob bit his tongue. Only respect for Candy and Jimothi kept him from blurting out his opinion of the vet's little rant. Time would tell, though, that this was no more than Carrion's latest trick – probably an attempt to gain sympathy. Well, the former Lord of Gorgossium would find none here.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion was slowly drawn back from the roaring nothingness that had engulfed him. Gradually, he became aware of a sensation in his hand, and it took a great deal of concentration before he was able to put a name to it – soft, warm fur. Fur running back and forth beneath his hand. Fur was preferable to nothingness, despite his very vague sense of misgiving, so he mentally clung to it, focusing on its shape and motion.

Slowly he realized that the fur covered ears, a head, a neck, a back, and a tail, and as he concentrated on the fur, other details trickled into his awareness. He was lying down on his stomach. Fabric brushed his cheek. The couch. That's right, he was lying on the couch, the couch where the tarr– Carrion's eyes snapped open and his entire body stiffened as memories of the past month or so washed over him.

_Well,_ he thought with a certain grim humor, _"washed" makes it sound like a gentle rain. A hurricane is more apt._

He forced his muscles to relax. Apparently his mind had already decided to take a brief vacation; he wasn't about to let his body do the same. It was only then that he realized that his hands had clenched into fists – one by his head on the couch, the other on the scruff of the tarrie's neck.

Immediately he released his grip. It would be just his cursed luck if he harmed That Thing _purely by_ _accident_ and was summarily executed. He wondered suspiciously why the beast hadn't immediately turned on him fang and claw, for it had certainly been an almost painful grip, and yet his hand remained blood-free. Carrion shifted slightly to stare down at the cat, which looked up at him with wide amber eyes. It was an expression Carrion might have called concern if it hadn't belonged to a Thing bent on torturing him. The kitten nosed his hand gently. When he made no response other than a wary stare, it dared to rub its head against his palm.

Maybe it was because he'd finally lost his mind. Maybe he was simply still reeling from the emptiness. Maybe it was something else entirely. Whatever the reason, Carrion hesitantly rubbed the kitten's ears. It immediately began purring explosively, and Carrion was finally able to relax.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Candy stared speechlessly at the Lord of Midnight. Although the back of the couch was to the mirror, it was only a foot or so away and she'd watched the entire scene play out. A sudden thought jolted her from her frozen state and she quickly turned to see Finnegan striding away, toward the door to Carrion's rooms.

"Finnegan, wait!" she called, hurrying over and grabbing his elbow when he didn't stop. He halted at her touch, near the kitchen window, and raised his eyebrows.

"What is it?"

"Listen, could you just wait a few minutes before going in?"

Finnegan frowned slightly in confusion. "I thought we agreed it would be best to give him just enough time to read the letter. This is supposed to throw him off-balance. Just because he–" Sudden understanding dawned and Finnegan's gaze hardened. "You're feeling sorry for him, aren't you." It wasn't a question. "Candy, you know better than most the atrocities he's committed and just what he's capable of. I understand that you want him to have a second chance, but we all know the chances of him changing for the better are practically in the negatives. Besides, for all you know that could have been nothing more than a ruse to throw _us_ off balance and let our guard down. He can't be trusted, Candy. _Ever_."

And although it was clear he wasn't going to change his opinion and thought she was either a little crazy or a little naïve for believing differently, his movements were gentle as he pulled away from her grasp. Candy stood frozen for a moment, frantically casting about for a reason to delay him.

"Wait!" As Finnegan turned back, looking a little exasperated, she hurried on. "Look, you have a point. But let Dr. Cerra go first. If this is a ruse, then he did something to the kitten to force its compliance. The kitten's welfare is the most important concern right now, so would you let Tev go in first and check him out? And while he's doing that, Malingo can check to see if he can detect any recent spells in Carrion's rooms."

Finnegan nodded a little grudgingly and Tev immediately brushed past them to see to his charge. Noting the stiff set of his shoulders, Candy wondered if the veterinarian disapproved of her project as much as Finnegan did. Meanwhile, Malingo was happy to begin a series of incantations that would hopefully reveal any magic Carrion has performed.

Candy exhaled, relieved that her friend was willing to wait. "Thank you," she said, and Finnegan smiled back.

_**-.-.-.-**_

For a while, Carrion simply laid there and petted the kitten. He knew that normally his mind would be racing ahead, trying to figure out exactly what had happened, why it had happened, how much his captors had seen, how they would react, and how he could turn it to his advantage (or at least less of a disadvantage). However, his mind didn't seem up to racing just yet – maybe a nice, steady jog but not a race – so he just wondered idly what it was about the combination of soft fur and gentle purring vibrations that was so very soothing. Perhaps a skill the creatures were born with as a way to lull their prey into a deadly comfort? Hm, yes, that was probably it. Of course, the Prince of Darkness would never be caught off-guard, so it was perfectly all right if he –

Someone knocked on the door.

Carrion immediately bolted upright and the kitten jumped in surprise. He forced himself to calm down, and when he stood it was with the iron control he used so often. He headed for the kitchen, and twice nearly tripped over the cat which was pressing close to his legs. He growled a few perfunctory curses at it as the door was opened and the veterinarian entered.

Carrion relaxed marginally. Better him than any of the other lunatics in this asylum. The tarrie seemed to agree, for it began its usual exuberant bound forward – only to halt almost in midair. It looked over its shoulder at Carrion, hesitated, and started to turn back.

"Oh, for-" Carrion gritted his teeth and pointed at the vet. "_Go_."

To his immense irritation, the kitten hesitated a moment more before running to greet Tev. Carrion pointedly ignored the examination, going to get a glass of water instead.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The kitten purred happily as Tev rubbed his ears. Tev was almost as good as Jimothi or another tarrie, knowing all the right places for a rub or a stroke or a gentle scratch. It had been wonderful to finally get Snarl to pet him, but – well, Snarl was a novice petter. He had a good natural talent, but his technique still left a little something to be desired.

"Yes, you've done well," Tev murmured as he switched from greeting to examination. "Very well, in fact." As the kitten's head was gently tilted up, his amber eyes flicked from Tev's face to Snarl's stiff back questioningly. He knew Snarl still hadn't quite got his paws back under him, and wondered if perhaps Tev should give Snarl a look too. After all, the kitten wasn't the one who'd just collapsed!

Tev saw the question in his eyes and chuckled. (That was another thing – the vet understood him nearly as well as Jimothi.) "Somehow I doubt he'd appreciate it, kit."

The kitten huffed. He had to be examined all the time – why shouldn't Snarl?

Tev chuckled again. "Perhaps I'll take it up with Miss Quackenbush, then," he said. More seriously, he added, "I know you're worried, but he'll be fine," and gave the kitten one last pat.

The kitten purred and sat, wrapping his tail smugly around his paws. Hah! He couldn't wait to see Snarl poked and prodded. Oooh – and what if Tev tried to rub _his_ ears! The kitten snickered. Wouldn't that be a sight!

_**-.-.-.-**_

"Have a seat?"

Carrion transferred his scowl from his glass to the vet, considering. Only the slight lilt that turned the words from a command into a request kept him refusing with a scathing remark. Instead he set the glass in the sink, pulled out the chair he'd used earlier, and sat down without a word. The scowl remained.

Tev tugged the other chair slightly to the side so that it was at the corner of the table – mostly facing away from the mirror, but at an angle where he could speak to Carrion with ease – then picked up the kitten and settled it on his lap.

"I thought you were done with That Thing," Carrion muttered, voice dripping with distaste.

"I am," said Tev, though he appeared to be going through all the motions of his usual exam again. "But it'd look a little odd if I stopped to chat with the prisoner, don't you think?"

Carrion raised an eyebrow, asking sharply, "And what might the esteemed veterinarian have to say to the disgraced prisoner?"

"That the esteemed veterinarian happens – to a degree – to sympathize with the disgraced prisoner."

"I don't need your pity!" Carrion snapped.

"I don't recall mentioning it!" Tev snapped back.

Carrion fell silent for a moment, still irked. No matter what the vet said, "sympathy" was just a pretty word for "pity." Still… If he _thought_ he was saying something else… How could Carrion use this to his advantage? Perhaps the vet could be persuaded to overlook an injury to That Thing? Carrion vetoed the idea as soon as it formed. Doubtless the vet valued the beast's welfare far more than Carrion's, but– Another thought struck him. What if the vet saw Carrion as just another animal, therefore feeling a sense of responsibility toward him? Carrion wasn't sure he liked that idea.

"Listen," Tev was saying. "You've managed to surprise people, Carrion. Frankly, no one but Miss Quackenbush thought you'd make it more than a few days – a week at the most – without either trying to escape or killing the tarrie. And yet here you both are, three weeks later, no–" His eyes flicked briefly toward the fading scars Carrion still bore. "Well, almost no worse for wear."

"What does that have to do with anything?" asked Carrion, voice coated in scorn and skepticism.

"More than you think, apparently," the vet said impatiently, continuing before Carrion could retort. "I'm not the only one who's starting to wonder if maybe you aren't completely beyond hope." He paused, shrugged, admitted, "Or that maybe you're even more devious than your grandmother and are simply biding your time."

"Is there a point to your rambling?"

"Put simply, stay the last ten days. Your chances aren't as poor as they seem to be."

For a while, Carrion simply stared, trying to figure out what the man's angle was. He didn't think Tev was the sort to put on such a show for The Girl or one of her cohorts. However, this didn't mean that he couldn't rule it out as another trap they'd contrived. Tev seemed intelligent enough, but anyone can be subtly manipulated without even realizing it was happening. (Carrion should know – he'd practically made a career out of doing just that.) But what if the vet was being honest? The thought of being an object of Tev's "sympathy" still rankled, but he didn't seem the type to offer false hope. If there was even the slightest chance that, by suffering through the rest of his rehabilitation, he could sway the opinion of The Girl or one of her friends in his favor…

"So you say," Carrion muttered dismissively.

"I do," said Tev, unable to hide the smallest of smiles as he set the kitten back on the floor. Despite Carrion's attitude, Tev had caught the slightest renewed gleam in the Lord of Midnight's eyes. Maybe Carrion still believed he had no chance of returning to Gorgossium, but the last of that empty expression was gone and Tev was willing to bet that it wouldn't be back any time soon.

Fixing the cat with a look of distaste, Carrion asked, "Are you finally done examining that beast?" Said beast bounded over to press against his shin and purr happily. Tev swallowed a snicker.

"Yes, quite finished," he said, managing to sound perfectly serious. "And I'll be pleased to let Miss Quackenbush know that the kit was neither physically harmed nor put under any sort of compulsion or control spell."

As Carrion rolled his eyes (because honestly, if he hadn't tried something like that weeks ago to stop That blasted Thing from shredding him, why would he do so now to _force_ the creature to touch him?), the vet headed for the door, feeling rather pleased with himself for a good day's work. He was halfway out the door when he suddenly paused and looked back. "Carrion? Looks like the dragon-killer, Finnegan Hob, is visiting after I leave. Thought you might want to know." And he was gone.

For a moment, Carrion sat paralyzed, unable to quite believe the vet's words because Hob simply could not be coming to ridicule him in his moment of weakness because the universe was simply not that cruel and therefore this must be a joke – a joke in very poor taste, to say the least, but a joke nonetheless.

Then it finally sank in and Carrion was hit with blinding, all-consuming rage and hate that drove every thought out of his head but the image of his hands wrapped around Finnegan Hob's throat. Indeed, his hands were clenched on the edge of the table so tightly that it was painful but in his anger he–

And just as suddenly the fury vanished, replaced by the (not glee, the Prince of Darkness does not feel "glee") overpowering smugness of a Brilliant Idea. Carrion reflected in a back corner of his mind that these abrupt, intense shifts in emotion were rather dizzying, and possibly an attempt to make up for those few minutes when he'd felt absolutely nothing. Irritating, but not debilitating. Hopefully it would pass soon.

In the meantime – and he allowed his lips to curve into the smirk that had caused widespread panic across the Abarat – in the meantime, he had a plan to deal with Hob's imminent intrusion.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Finnegan watched Tev Cerra leave the prisoner's rooms. As soon as the vet had assured Candy and Jimothi that the kitten was unharmed and neither coerced nor controlled (a verdict seconded by Malingo), he started for the door.

"There's no trouble if I go now, right?" he asked Candy over his shoulder.

"No, go ahead," she said, and Finnegan tried not to let it annoy him that she still sounded the tiniest bit reluctant.

_It isn't her fault,_ he reminded himself. _She's a kind, gentle person, always wanting to see the best in everyone – always has been. He's the one who's manipulating her, the evil murdering– _Finnegan cut off the beginning of a mental tirade with a shake of his head. He would be civil if it killed him – for her. Only for her. Anything for her. With a last calming breath, he opened the door and entered the prison of the man who'd murdered his bride.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion was unsurprised when Hob failed to knock. Regardless of Carrion's current position, it was still a common courtesy and Hob was clearly too much of a dragon-killing barbarian to care about such social niceties.

Again, despite how much it went against the grain, the Lord of Midnight remained seated. Though he loathed giving Hob even the slightest illusion of power over him, he'd found from using the same trick on The Girl that it was much harder to seem the aggressor in any confrontation when one was seated. And oh, he was going to use that.

"Afternoon, Hob," said Carrion, the picture of a polite host. (There was a quiet growl from somewhere near the floor, and he shot the tarrie-cat a glare. The kitten reluctantly quieted and sat close to his chair.)

"I'm not in the mood for games, Carrion." Hob managed not to spit the name but it was a near thing. Instead, he decided to put the hatred aside for a moment and simply enjoy the fact that he was in a position of power over the former Prince of Gorgossium. "Since you – expressed – several days ago that you're having difficulties understanding the contents of Candy's weekly letters, she's asked me to go over them with you so that there will be no doubts at all concerning what's expected of you."

Carrion felt the rage and hate still bubbling in the depths of his mind, rather like a pool of lava that hadn't yet decided whether it wanted to erupt with volcanic force. But his self-control was equal to it, and his carefully hidden smugness provided an excellent barrier. And so, rather than verbally flay Hob, Carrion merely nodded. "I see. Very thoughtful of Miss Quackenbush, to be so accommodating."

Hob's eyes narrowed in suspicion and he took a step forward. "I don't know what you're trying to accomplish with the sudden pitiful act, but I don't believe any of it for a second. There's no point in pretending. You won't fool anyone here."

Carrion kept a sudden surge of relief hidden behind his expression of polite indifference. His first piece of good luck in - well, since The Girl had come to the Abarat. Hob, at least, believed his collapse was nothing more than an ill-thought-out ruse. Hopefully the dragon-killer would be able to convince the others as well. Carrion would rather be thought foolish than let even a rumor of weakness begin circulating.

"Very well, I can't fool you," Carrion said with a small, dismissive flick of his hand. "Let's simply get on with your reason for visiting me, shall we?"

"Very well," Hob repeated, his tone just this side of mocking. "We'll go through line by line."

"A fine idea," Carrion agreed, unable to keep the tiniest hint of a smirk away. Hob was playing right along with his plan.

Hob read through the letter's first paragraph. "'In a _positive_ way, Mister Carrion,'" he finished, unable to fully hide just how much he was relishing the moment. "So, 'Mister' Carrion, do you understand what Miss Quackenbush requires of you?"

"I believe I do, Mister Hob," Carrion replied cordially. "Candy acknowledges that I'm taking care of Tha- the cat, but asks that I play with it. Would you agree that's the gist of it, Mister Hob?" Inwardly he smirked. Using The Girl's first name would be even more likely to irritate Hob than the polite answer.

Sure enough, he could tell the dragon-killer was clenching his teeth. "Good," said Hob shortly, and continued. "'Additionally, you are still refusing to cooperate with Doctor Friendly. Throwing out the therapist responsible for attesting to your ability to manage your anger is _not_ the best way to go about securing your release.'" He looked up from the letter. "So tell me, Carrion. Why _would_ you throw out someone who has so much influence over your fate?"

Carrion raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever had the – unique experience of speaking at length with this doctor?"

Hob's eyes narrowed. "He's a very busy man. I can't say I've had the pleasure."

"Ah." A knowing nod. "I see. Then I'm afraid, Mister Hob, that you couldn't possibly understand."

Hob limited his reaction to a mistrustful frown (Carrion was reluctantly impressed – he'd thought that would at least merit a snarl) and read off the final line of the paragraph. "'Although his methods may seem unconventional, you have to cooperate with him if you don't want to go back to prison.' Is that clear, Carrion?"

"As the waters of the Izabella off the Nonce," said Carrion placidly.

For a few beats Hob only stared at him in silence. Finally, he asked, "What's your game?"

"Game? Whatever do you mean, Mister Hob?" The Lord of Midnight was the picture of innocence – except for the slightest hint of a knowing smirk in his eyes and at the corners of his lips. No one would notice unless they happened to look very closely and had previous experience with Carrion's smirks.

Hob noticed. He planted his hands on the table, leaning over to glare into Carrion's face. "We both know you're hardly inclined to be so agreeable," he snapped. "This act isn't going to make me think any better of you, and I'm sure you know that. Tell me what you're _playing_ at!"

"Are you threatening me?" Carrion wondered aloud in the tone of one asking what the weather was like. He allowed his gaze to shift briefly from Hob's face to Candy's letter and back. Scowling, Hob straightened.

"I'm watching you," he corrected stiffly. "You aren't pulling the wool over anyone's eyes, Carrion. Least of all mine."

"Of course." It was an effort, remaining outwardly composed while he was snickering on the inside. If he'd only known years ago that acting calm and agreeable threw the fool so off-balance! "Shall we continue with the letter, then?" Carrion thought with malicious glee that he could hear Hob's teeth grinding.

"Why not," Hob growled. "'In addition to that, you used magic for the second time when it has been made extremely clear to you that it is _not allowed_, not for any reason.' This seems to be something particularly hard for you to comprehend," he said, looking up from the letter and fixing Carrion with a cold stare. "Wouldn't you agree? But is it that you don't understand or that you refuse to obey?"

Carrion leaned back slightly, as if giving the question serious thought. "I would say…once each."

"How do you figure that?" Hob's voice was kept carefully neutral.

"The first time I used magic in these rooms was to retrieve the tarrie-cat. It was my first day here, as you may recall, and Miss Quackenbush failed to mention anything about magic when discussing the regulations for this – rehabilitation. Therefore, once out of ignorance."

"Oh, as if I'd believe that for a second!" Hob spat, finally irritated enough to show it. (Carrion was mildly relieved. He'd begun to worry he'd lost his touch.) "You made it through over two weeks in prison on the understanding that no magic was allowed. You may be an evil, murderous waste of space, Carrion, but you're not _stupid_."

Carrion blinked in genuine surprise. "Thank you, Hob. That's the nicest thing you've said to me in, oh, two decades or more."

"Quiet!" snapped the dragon-hunter. "You _knew_ magic was-"

"I _knew_ magic was forbidden," Carrion interrupted, "in the _cell_. Where I also had several bindings placed on me by the geshrat. Here? With those bonds lifted? How could I have known? After all, I am in rehabilitation instead of prison, am I not?"

Hob opened his mouth to protest – then closed it, jaw clenched. He was obviously forcing the words back down his throat, having realized that nothing he could say would have any impact on Carrion's ridiculous claims.

The Lord of Gorgossium shifted slightly in his chair, settling into a more comfortable position. With effort, he kept the internal smirk from showing in his expression. _You may be an arrogant, self-righteous waste of space, Hob, but you're not _completely_ stupid_, he thought smugly. Yes, he was enjoying himself.

"Very well," Hob finally said. His voice was brusque, but Carrion could still hear an undercurrent of annoyance. "Let's say you really were honestly uncertain about the rules the first time. That doesn't excuse throwing fireballs around!"

"Quite right. The second time I used magic, yes, it was with full knowledge that it was not allowed," Carrion agreed, sounding far too calm for someone confessing that he'd deliberately ignored the conditions of his imprisonment. Before Hob could comment to that effect, Carrion went on. "Of course, that was in defense of my life, so I fail to see why I should be punished."

"Your life was not in danger!" Hob could hardly believe that the Prince of Darkness would claim that crickets were a mortal threat, and he sounded more incredulous than angry.

"Have you ever gotten into bed only to find yourself _covered_ in insects?" Carrion asked, lip curling in disgust at the mere thought.

"I don't believe this," Hob muttered, more to himself than Carrion, and looked back to the letter. They – he, Candy, Malingo and the others – could debate the cricket issue later. Instead, he finished the third paragraph of Candy's letter. "'From now on, someone will come to your rooms after every piece of correspondence to make sure you understand exactly what it expected of you. This will prevent the possibility of any further misunderstandings.'" Now it was Hob's turn to smirk. "Is that clear enough for you, Carrion? You can't claim ignorance anymore."

"So it would seem," agreed Carrion blandly.

Hob leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed. "I'm afraid I'll need a clearer answer than that. Remember, can't have any misunderstandings."

"I understand that from this point on any and all correspondence I receive will be read aloud to confirm that I have read and comprehended all the information contained therein. Thus, I can no longer claim ignorance, misunderstanding, or misinterpretation of any rules, regulations, guidelines, or policies mentioned in said correspondence."

For a moment, Hob could only stare. Carrion stared back. Hob decided that, even for Carrion, that was good enough.

"'Finally,'" Hob read from the last paragraph of the letter, "'you told me that you didn't think we would ever genuinely consider relea–'" He abruptly stopped, reading ahead silently. The two or three taunts that had immediately come to mind upon discovering that Carrion thought his situation was hopeless fell by the wayside, his thoughts racing onward as he took in Candy's words.

Carrion folded his arms across his chest and leaned back to watch the show. He allowed the smirk he'd been holding back for so long to surface for a moment while the idiot was absorbed in the letter. The Girl might have thought her seemingly concerned words would affect him, but she'd given no thought to who else would read the missive. _Oh, this is going to be _so_ entertaining!_

_**-.-.-.-**_

The kitten glanced between the two men, confused. He'd growled at the strange man – the one Snarl disliked as much as the Leech, the one he called "that-fool-hob" – as a warning. But Snarl hadn't wanted his protection, and so he'd subsided and refrained from attacking the fool-hob. However, he hadn't left the kitchen, remaining politely to one side of Snarl's chair and out of the way. There was no way he was going to leave Snarl alone after collapsing like that.

The tarrie had watched the exchange with interest, not always getting all the words or references, but still following fairly well. Snarl's calm would have worried him so soon after that blankness, but the tarrie knew him well enough to sense that Snarl was well-pleased with a plot in progress. So, he'd been willing to sit back and enjoy Snarl's victories over the intruder.

Until this unnatural stillness. Something was about to happen. The fool-hob was tense and Snarl was waiting. The kitten stood uneasily, shifting from paw to paw. Whatever happened, he would be ready to defend Snarl.

_**-.-.-.-**_

The words were still running through Finnegan Hob's mind. Everything else, however, seemed to be frozen. Some phrases kept jumping out at him.

"_That's not true Carrion!"_

"_We can help you go home!"_

"_Please, Carrion, just try!"_

He'd been telling himself that Candy's insistence on trying to rehabilitate Midnight's former prince was only a result of, at best, a strong belief in mercy and second chances or, at worst, sheer naïveté. But this… This letter made it seem as though she had some sort of – some sort of soft spot for Christopher Carrion! So what if in the end he'd helped them defeat Mater Motley? That was only because the Hag had turned on her grandson and he'd wanted revenge. Carrion was still nothing more than a vicious, lying devil who would try to take over the Abarat again the instant he was set free.

His Boa had had the kindest heart the Abarat had ever known, and even she had seen that Midnight's darkness permeated Carrion – heart, mind, and soul. How could Candy, knowing Carrion's past and having experienced his evil firsthand, _possibly_ think anything good of–

She couldn't. She couldn't possibly see any good in the _former_ Lord of Midnight. She was smarter than that, she _was_…

It hit him. Of course she was.

"What do you mean by this?" Hob snarled, thrusting the letter in Carrion's face.

Carrion raised an eyebrow. "You'll have to be more specific, I'm afraid."

"You'd never be able to control her – she's too strong for you." Although Hob managed to keep his voice at a reasonable volume, rage blazed in his green eyes. "But I'm sure altering her letter isn't beyond you. What are you trying to achieve, Carrion?"

"My dear Hob," Carrion drawled, "I did not tamper in any way with either Candy or her missive."

Hob took a sudden, irate step forward and the tarrie-kitten leaped in front of Carrion's chair with a warning hiss, placing itself squarely between the two. Its eyes were narrowed and the fur down its spine bristled. Surprise halted Hob's advance, and then he fixed a furious glare on Carrion.

"Managed to corrupt the cat, I see. There's hardly any reason to continue trying to rehabilitate you, in that case," he spat.

Carrion swiftly hid his own surprise. Was this another ploy of That Thing's to get him jailed or killed? And if it wasn't, then… Carrion mentally shook himself – Hob was ranting and it was finally time to pull off his Brilliant Plan. The cat's motivations could wait.

"My dear Hob," Carrion repeated, "you seem a bit – upset."

"_Upset_?" Hob said the word as though it were the worst of curses.

Carrion leaned forward. "Really, Hob," he began kindly, "you need to learn how to control your anger."

The dragon-killer was momentarily rendered speechless. "_What_?"

"I'm hardly as accomplished as Doctor Friendly, of course," Carrion continued, "but I do know that the first step to managing your unhealthy anger is to consciously determine to be calm. Can you try that, Hob?"

"Consciously determine to be calm?" Hob snarled, sheer rage temporarily robbing him of the ability to do any more than repeat the phrase.

"Come now, Hob, the second step is to communicate!" Carrion admonished. "Until you open a dialogue with the people around you, you'll be trapped in an endless cycle of anger. Repetition doesn't count!"

"Would my hands around your throat communicate enough?" Hob ground out.

"See, that's progress!" said Carrion, pleased. "Now, the third step is to remove yourself from the scene until you can respond without anger. I believe this step would be very beneficial at the –"

Without another word, Finnegan Hob abruptly turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen, flinging the letter to the floor. A moment longer and he really would strangle Carrion.

"Don't forget to take time for yourself and look for the positives, Hob!" Carrion called after him mockingly. The door slammed so hard that the glass in the sink rattled.

For a while, Gorgossium's prince merely sat there, emblazoning Hob's apoplectic expression in his mind. Then he released a smug, self-satisfied sigh and stood. The constant fury at having Hob in his space had vanished completely, and far more quickly than usual. He looked down at the cat almost tolerantly as he headed back to his armchair.

"And that, my dear Thing," said Carrion, "is how to manage your anger using the Five Steps."

The kitten rubbed against his leg and purred loudly in agreement.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_And thus, once again I have triumphed over that half-breed fool, Finnegan Hob. I honestly believed Friendly's Five Steps to be completely useless. I shall have to apologize to the man._

…

_On second thought, perhaps not._

_I am in a rather generous mood, however. I've decided not to skin the cat alive for assaulting me while I was lying prone._

…

_Although… To be perfectly honest, I_

_Well._

_It hardly matters. I will not be so weak again, and even if such a thing were to occur I'm sure That Thing will take advantage of the opportunity to kill me rather than…assist me._

_It's simply part and parcel of its elaborate plot to trick me into lowering my guard. And so was leaping between Hob and me._

…_After all, what else could it be?_


	12. Ch11: In Which an Epic Plot Unfolds

Carrion and the Cat (or, Torture by Animal) – Amaruk Wolfheart

**Spoilers: **Meh, same old. Clive Barker is almost as bad at getting stuff out there as I am.

**Warnings and Pairings: **Warning: If you have issues with anger management, do not expect to try these "strategies" and have a huge success. In fact, don't even try them in this form. Go to my profile and check out the original sites. Pairings: Still none. But as usual (maybe slightly more so, actually) you can read some CandyxCarrion into it. Blame Red Stockings. I just read like 10 chapters of The Stars like the Dark.

**Notes: **…So. Yes. I've taken an extraordinarily long time once again. I can offer no excuses, & although I highly doubt it can make up for the wait, I do so hope that you enjoy this chapter. I realized several pages into it that I was actually in Friendly-perspective. Do you have any idea how _disturbing_ that was? (shudder) …However, I am rather proud of Carrion's scraps of paper. ; ) The list of strategies on Friendly's paper? Yeah, not making those up. At all. Found it on a site and nearly died laughing, thinking _ZOMG it's perfect for Friendly!_ Also, this chapter contains a tiny nod to one of the most brilliant _Harry Potter_ fics ever, Aspen in the Sunlight's A Year Like None Other.

* * *

Chapter Eleven: In Which an Epic Plot Unfolds

**Journal Entry Nineteen: Day 25**

_Plans have been made, reviewed, revised, and finalized, as have several backup plans. That Idiot would never miss two visits in a row and I _will_ be prepared. If nothing else, the self-reproducing glitter taught me not to underestimate him. My handling of this issue is more critical now than ever, as it affects my release as well as simply preserving my peace and sanity. If I cannot rectify my earlier mishandling of the situation during today's torture session, I may never be able to._

_The cat, of course, will assist. It has proven lately that it can grasp my plots relatively quickly and act in accordance with them instead of opposing them. With some discussion beforehand, I'm sure its actions will only improve._

_We will be ready._

_**-.-.-.-**_

Christopher Carrion stared at the journal for a moment, then carelessly tossed it aside (so carelessly that it landed closed and out of sight from the kitchen) and slumped forward, his elbows on his knees. The kitten, which had been grooming itself on the arm of the couch, looked up eagerly. Carrion's chin tilted down slightly, and it leapt down to settle at his feet.

"We have discussed the plans," said Carrion in an authoritative tone totally at odds with his pose, "and I believe I have answered all of your questions. Correct?"

The kitten blinked, then cocked its head.

"The part with the fish?"

Another blink, and the slight twitch of an ear.

"Don't be ridiculous. We've gone over it twice; you'll be perfectly fine."

The kitten righted its head and lightly batted Carrion's foot with a paw.

"Good. Just remember to keep your head. If we have to improvise – which I don't doubt we will; That Idiot is so far from the realms of sanity that even I can't possibly predict his every reaction – just follow my lead. I want him out in twenty minutes at the most, and the sooner the better."

The kitten's eyes shone with fervent agreement.

"That Idiot could arrive at any moment. Be ready, or you will know my rage."

The kitten meowed, looking rather fierce, and bounded into the kitchen.

Carrion gave a satisfied smirk that would be invisible from behind any of the mirrors. The cat was an unorthodox ally, certainly, but the Carrion family had a long history of using whatever or whoever could benefit them. He leaned back in the armchair then, limbs sprawled inelegantly and head lolling to one side at just the right angle to check the kitchen one last time. Yes – the cat's supplies as they should be, crumpled papers scattered over the floor in seeming disarray… All in place. This time he had to keep the smirk internal.

Acting constantly for the past five days had at times been a great strain, but Carrion felt confident that his performance thus far had been a convincing one. It hadn't taken long after he'd driven Hob away for his mind to turn back to his collapse and examine it from all angles, looking for ways to turn it to his advantage.

And then he had realized something. Something rather unpleasant.

He, Christopher Carrion, had been phenomenally stupid.

He was an arrogant man, probably more so than was healthy, but he had long known that. He had also long known that one should be completely honest with oneself – even if with no one else. And thus, while it was a very irritating truth to realize, he could admit to himself that he had made a severe strategic error. And he knew why, too: pride. Arrogance.

What he should have done right from the beginning was painfully clear in retrospect. He ought to have immediately devised a schedule for his "successful" rehabilitation, slowly conforming to the behavior expected of him in a way that was carefully, even painstakingly, planned out while appearing to be a natural progression. _Or rather,_ he thought wryly, _as natural as any change of behavior could be in an environment such as this_. Then The Girl and her band of idiotic followers would have believed him truly rehabilitated – and sent home a Prince of Midnight that was nothing of the kind.

But no. In his pride, he had not even thought of pretending to be affected by their tactics, only resisted – not just internally, but _outwardly_ as well. Carrion shook his head at himself irritably even now, several days later. If he had suddenly realized his mistake only a day earlier, there would have been nothing he could have done to rectify it. None of his jailers, foolish as they were, would believe in a sudden change of heart, or that only ten more days of rehabilitation would have any significant effect.

Except for the collapse. Completely unplanned, one of the most humiliating moments of Carrion's life, and yet truly a miracle in disguise. Although at first he'd only hoped to save some face by Hob convincing the others that it was a ploy for sympathy, in the light of his new plans it was very important that everyone think the collapse was genuine.

A sudden change of heart would be suspicious, yes – but a change of heart after collapsing under overwhelming pressure? Oh yes. _That_ was plausible. And if he finally began to play his cards right, there was a distinct possibility that Carrion could make that vision of returning home (supposedly) rehabilitated into reality.

This realization had led nicely into his plans for Friendly. The therapist, after all, was the main person who would testify as to whether or not Carrion should be released. The tricky bit would be convincing him in only two sessions that he was cooperating and being "cured" while also getting him out of Carrion's quarters as soon as possible. A lesser man than Carrion might be intimidated by this task, but after several hours of diligent thought, he had the beginnings of a workable plan. It would require, of course, near-constant acting for the next nine days, but Carrion had found himself feeling invigorated by the challenge. (After the emptiness of the collapse, this was particularly reassuring.)

Several days' work brought him to his current state: slumped in the armchair on the 25th day of his imprisonment, surrounded by crumpled paper, with an alert, scheming tarrie. All was going according to plan.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Behind the living room mirror, one of the two guards stationed there snorted half in disbelief and half in disgust. "Just lookit 'im," he said to the other guard, his brother Argud, for the third time in less than an hour.

Argud rolled his eyes, though inwardly he had to admit that his brother had a point (if a repetitive one). The two guards hadn't been on duty behind one of the more active mirrors in almost a week, and Darug couldn't seem to stop comparing the Carrion they watched now to the Carrion they had seen more than three weeks ago, flailing a clinging kitten around and looking half-mad with rage.

This Carrion looked, for want of a better word, dull. His movements were listless, lacking their earlier conviction and purpose. Instead of sniping at Finnegan or immolating crickets, his two most common pastimes were scribbling rapidly in his book, then tearing out and throwing aside the page, and sitting with his head in his hands.

Rumors had been circulating for several days now, rumors that the mighty Prince of Darkness had suffered some sort of attack and was finally succumbing to Candy Quackenbush's plan – a plan that had seemed so outrageously farfetched in the beginning and now seemed almost possible. Opinions were, of course, divided. Some thought that Carrion had had some kind of mental breakdown. Some thought that Candy's rehabilitation strategy was finally yielding results. Some thought that Carrion was shamming, using the apparent quietude to plot something truly dire. Everyone, however, was expecting Dr. Friendly to shed some light on the truth of Carrion's behavior. After all, he was a therapist. He would know what was really going on inside the head of the Lord of Midnight.

Darug spoke up again. "So, what're the odds he attacks Friendly? Mischief wanted to place his bet."

Argud began to flip through the book where all the bets, bettors, odds, and winnings were penciled in with painstaking care. "Lessee now…" he muttered, running a finger down a page. As the unofficial bookkeepers for all the betting that centered on Carrion's imprisonment and rehabilitation, the brothers had been very busy for the last couple of days. Mostly they had been collecting bets on this very moment: what would happen during Carrion's second-to-last therapy session?

_**-.-.-.-**_

A knock on the door almost made Carrion break into a predatory grin. Fortunately he mastered the impulse and made a rather lackluster figure as he heaved himself up with a sigh and made his way into the hall.

"Good afternoon, Mister Carrion!" Friendly's voice, even muffled, was enough to prompt a grimace of distaste but Carrion nevertheless opened the door.

"Good afternoon," he returned, rather sullenly. There was a slight pause as he gathered up every scrap of self-control he had before forcing himself to add, "Doctor Friendly."

_**-.-.-.-**_

The fact that this was the first time Christopher Carrion had ever actually used the therapist's name and title was not lost on Barnabas, who clasped his hands together in a paroxysm of delight. Being the professional that he was, he of course did not comment on this highly significant breakthrough. "It's so good to see you again, Mister Carrion, particularly after so long. Shall we sit down?"

"By all means," Christopher muttered, gesturing to the kitchen.

As Barnabas bustled into the kitchen, he caught sight of the tarrie on the counter and let out a squeak of delight. Unfortunately, the cat's ears (up and twisted back), tail (lashing wildly), fangs (quite sharp-looking), and hiss (back off or I'll shred the flesh from your bones) were more than a little discouraging. He felt rather heartbroken by this less-than-warm welcome, having hoped that the little kitten would have thawed toward him by now. Perhaps it was time to extend his practice to caring for non-humanoids. Clearly Christopher's anger management issues had affected the impressionable young tarrie.

"Now then," he began as he turned away from the tarrie to sit at the table, offering his recalcitrant patient a smile. "Today we embark on Stage 3 of your anger management therapy. As you will recall, the first stage was identification of the mistaken attitudes and convictions that predispose us to being excessively angry in the first place. For the second stage, we identified those factors from childhood that prevents us from expressing our anger appropriately. Today's third stage is learning the appropriate modes of expressing our legitimate anger at others so that we can begin to cope more effectively with anger-provoking situations." He was practically bouncing with eagerness, though of course he appeared calm and professional to Christopher. "That means only one stage left after this! Are you ready to begin?"

Poor Christopher hesitated, gaze trained on the table. When he at last spoke, his voice was quiet, without any of the usual scorn or fury. "I… Yes, doctor, I am ready. These past few days have been – rather difficult."

Barnabas's eyes widened. He could hardly believe it. The man was finally opening up to him! He could dance a jig! Carefully keeping any hint of shock or joy from his expression (for that too would be most unprofessional), he leaned forward earnestly, planting his hands on the tabletop.

"Mister Carrion, although it may be painful, as your therapist and close friend I must ask that you explain what exactly has been going on to make life difficult for you," he entreated. Of course rumor had got round about his patient's little collapse. Candy, dear girl that she was, kept him informed about how Christopher was getting on, but Barnabas had thought this incident to be most likely exaggerated. Christopher Carrion was his toughest patient yet, after all. But this confession made him wonder if it was true and perhaps the poor man really did have a bit of a mental or emotional breakdown. How wonderful!

In response to the therapist's request, however, Christopher merely shook his head, closing his eyes and reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Barnabas released an inaudible, disappointed little sigh, and was trying to think of a way to get his dear friend to open up when his gaze fell on several crumpled scraps of paper on the kitchen floor. More careful inspection revealed a multitude of such papers all over the kitchen and the other room.

"Your home looks rather less tidy than usual, Mister Carrion," said Barnabas, wondering if this line of inquiry might lead to another breakthrough.

"I suppose so," Christopher murmured disconsolately without opening his eyes. "I've been trying… That is, they…" He faltered, then fluttered a hand at the general paper-strewn area.

Hoping that meant what he thought it meant, Barnabas asked, "Might I have a look at them?"

"I suppose so," Christopher repeated, although Barnabas fancied there was a slight uplift in his tone. Oh yes – no matter how the distraught fellow tried to play them off as unimportant, these papers were definitely a cry for help.

"That's very kind of you, Mister Carrion!" Barnabas praised his patient warmly as he got up to collect some of the papers. Positive reinforcement could work wonders, after all. Soon he had a small pile on the kitchen table, and he began to smooth them out and read them.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_O how my Heart sore yearns for Darkest Home  
__Where I'd no longer be Depressed - Alone.  
__These looming Walls Imprison me so well.  
__O when will I go Free? No Soul can tell.  
__My Pain is like - - -_

(the following words are scribbled out)

_**-.-.-.-**_

"Why, my dear Mister Carrion!" Barnabas said in hushed tones. "I had no idea you wrote poetry! This is simply amazing! Why did you cross the rest out and give up? It has such a wonderful rhythm to it." (He could almost have sworn he heard Christopher mutter, "It's iambic pentameter, Idiot," but of course that couldn't be right.)

"It's a terrible poem," Christopher began after a deep, bracing breath. "It didn't truly say what I feel, I couldn't find the right words, thinking about stressed and unstressed syllables just made _me_ feel stressed…" He shook his head.

"Nonsense!" Barnabas argued. "This poem truly speaks to me. Perhaps you aren't satisfied with it yet, but that's certainly no reason to deny your talent!" More positives. Christopher looked like he needed rather a lot of them.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_Midnight calls to me  
__but I cannot answer it.  
__I am so alone._

_**-.-.-.-**_

_Where has happiness gone?  
__Why has my black sky turned to day?  
__I am stalked by ravening beasts  
__In the forests of my sorrow.  
__How can I_ - - -

(violent scratches obscure the rest)

_**-.-.-.-**_

(a detailed ink drawing of Iniquisit)

_My home has been destroyed, and with it my heart.  
__Rest in peace._

_**-.-.-.-**_

(a beginning sketch of the Midnight gallows, crossed out with several angry lines)

_**-.-.-.-**_

_I finally realized today that I will never see my home again. These people don't expect me to become rehabilitated, and neither do I. Dr. Friendly may be a brilliant therapist, but I resisted him so much in the beginning that I'm afraid I won't be able to succeed in his program now, even if I wanted to. And even if I did, they'd never let me go. There's nothing left, there's nothing I_

(several sharp lines cross out the paragraph)

_**-.-.-.-**_

Barnabas felt his eyes widen once again. Here! This was want he had sensed in Christopher all along – a sincere desire to succeed in his therapy, to change his life, held back only by his own pride and need to live up to his reputation among the people of the Abarat! It was as though the ceiling had opened into the shining land of the Hereafter, filled with choirs of happy spirits. Barnabas nearly cried with joy.

"Mister Carrion," he said quietly, sliding the last paper across the table, "is there anything you would like to say about this?"

Christopher glanced at the paper, then quickly turned his head way. "…No."

But Barnabas didn't hear "no." Well, actually he did, but he also heard what Christopher was _really_ saying: "yes, I want to talk, I need to talk, I'm tired of being angry all the time and I need help and only you, the greatest therapist the Abarat has ever known, can possibly give it to me but I'm afraid that even you can't help me so I don't want to ask!"

It really was amazing how much a single word could say. Poor Christopher was truly lucky to have Barnabas as his therapist. Most others would have understood only a fraction of what he was trying to say, if they heard anything but "no" at all.

"Mister Carrion," he said again, leaning forward as any confidante would. "My dear Mister Carrion. Do not despair! Already you have made progress! Your application of the Five Steps to that unfortunate cricket incident showed a lot of thought and willingness to admit your own mistakes. I was truly quite impressed! And then when I heard that you tried to pass your knowledge into Mister Hob… Well, that was very good of you." He frowned slightly. "I did try to talk to dear Finnegan about it, but he became rather defensive. The loss of a loved one can be very distressing even years later, particularly if he hasn't dealt with his grief. I daresay I should try to set up a proper session with him. He seems a bit unbalanced, to be honest."

Christopher's lips curved slowly into a grin. "I am certainly not an expert of your caliber, Doctor Friendly, but that sounds like an absolutely _marvelous_ idea."

Barnabas blinked uneasily. His patient's expression could only be described as utter, unholy glee. _Nonsense. I'm sure he's only pleased to hear that Finnegan will finally be getting some help. Still… Perhaps best to move on._

"But we aren't here to talk about Finny, are we?" he said heartily. "We're here to teach you some–" Barnabas paused midsentence at the look on his patient's face of total bliss – eyes unfocused, small smile, quite relaxed – in disbelief.

"Finny," Christopher repeated quietly. "Finny, off to his first session of anger management and grief counseling…" His gaze refocused on Barnabas. "Doctor, I could almost apologize for today."

You must never let a patient see that you are confused or otherwise not in complete control of the session. It undermines their confidence in your ability to help them. So Barnabas offered him a wide smile and said with cheerful conviction, "I'm sure there will be no need to apologize, my dear Mister Carrion! Now, it's time to get to the true purpose of this session: first, teaching you some strategies to manage your anger so that it can be properly expressed, and second, practicing appropriate expression."

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion realized the kitten was trying to catch his eye and he gave it the very slightest tilt of his head. All is well – no need to initiate the plan just yet. Carrion had originally wanted to dive straight into it after Friendly had examined the papers, but – wonder of wonders – he was actually in a better mood than he had been since sending Hob fleeing from the room, tail tucked firmly between legs. The idea of Finny in therapy would bring him great joy for some time to come. So he would let That Idiot prattle on for a while. After all, if the fool reported that Carrion had mastered a variety of ways to manage his anger, that could only work in Carrion's favor.

The Midnight Prince watched Friendly dive into the polka-dotted bag, growing somewhat wary at the collection of papers that was growing on the table. Carrion reminded himself not to let his guard down again, no matter how amused or irritated he became. He could not afford to make a mistake at this stage, and there was no telling what That Idiot would try on him. At least the lack of ink bottles was a little reassuring.

"Now then!" Friendly said cheerfully as he finished gathering his materials. "I have collected these tried and true methods from my many years as a therapist and from the works of my colleagues. Every one of them may not work for you, and that's all right. But I think our goal today should be to find two or three that do. How does that sound?"

"It sounds – difficult, doctor," said Carrion, slipping back into his sullen/depressed mask. (He should not have let himself slip out of it, of course, but it seemed That Idiot hadn't noticed anything untoward. …Hm. Perhaps mood swings would be appropriate at this point?)

"Now, Mister Carrion," Friendly admonished, trying to look stern and not quite succeeding. "You mustn't degrade yourself before we even begin. I have already told you that you've done wonderfully understanding the Five Steps, and you didn't think that would work, did you? Just do your best and I guarantee you will find success."

Carrion drew out his hesitation, keeping his eyes submissively on the table. At last he glanced up and said quietly, "Very well, Doctor Friendly. I put my faith in you." He almost lost his composure when the therapist's eyes glistened with tears, but he managed to push the nausea away – until Friendly reached across the table to grab Carrion's hands. _Oh dear Midnight it's_ touching _me!_ his thoughts screamed, drowning out Friendly's babble about how proud he was.

Carrion felt bile rise in his throat and for the rest of his life he would never know where he found the strength not to immediately yank his hands away. And then three interminable seconds after That Idiot touched him, Carrion felt a solid warmth collide rather gracelessly with his shins and press against them. Carrion focused with all his might on that sensation, ignoring his hands ferociously for the next ten seconds. Then Friendly pulled away and, after a final soothing rub, the cat darted back to his position on the counter. Normally Carrion would gave frowned on this deviation from the plan, but since the cat's quick action had kept him from strangling That Idiot and thus ruining said plan, he decided to let it go. _We've passed the first major, unexpected problem successfully, and it will be only a matter of minutes before I can scrub my hands clean. At least six times._

"Right then!" Friendly was saying. "What I see in your poems and writings is a man who thinks he has no chance. When we are anxious or depressed in our relationships, we are often experiencing the consequences of our suppressed anger. Learning these techniques to deal with and express anger will help with those feelings. Let's just go down the list, shall we?"

He looked up expectantly. Carrion nodded, a trace of his earlier reluctance still visible, but said nothing.

"Ah, well. Right. In order to express our anger, we must first calm down enough to look at the situation with a clear mind. One possible strategy is called 'cognitive restructuring.' When you're angry, your thinking can get very exaggerated and overly dramatic. Try replacing these thoughts with more rational ones. For instance, instead of telling yourself, 'oh, it's awful, it's terrible, everything's ruined,' tell yourself, 'it's frustrating, and it's understandable that I'm upset about it, but it's not the end of the world and getting angry is not going to fix it anyhow.'" Friendly grinned widely, clearly pleased with himself. "Do you understand?"

"I do," said Carrion slowly, "but it seems terribly difficult to completely change the way I think all at once." _Not to mention that everything _is_ ruined and it _will_ be the end of the world – or at least my _life_ – if I don't get out of here. Idiot._

Friendly looked crestfallen, appeared to think hard, and after a moment brightened again. "True, Mister Carrion, true, but if you work on changing just a little at a time, you'll soon see significant progress!"

"But I don't _have _time!" Carrion suddenly, slamming a hand down on the table for emphasis. Inwardly he snickered at the therapist's startled jump. "There are only five days left before they decide whether or not to kill me!"

Friendly patted the air in what was apparently supposed to be a calming gesture. "No, no, Mister Carrion, you mustn't fret about that! Your therapy is of the utmost importance. I will ask dear Candy for more time if we agree you need it. Perhaps another month?"

Carrion nearly swallowed his tongue. _Oh, get him off that idea_ right _now._ "Doctor Friendly, I just don't know if more time here would help me. It's a stressful environment, as I wrote in my assignment. I believe I would be more comfortable and successful in my own home."

Friendly frowned slightly. "That may be, but I doubt dear Candy would want you to leave early, if that's what you're suggesting. And I'm concerned that your many traumatic childhood memories would negate any benefit of your returning to Gorgossium."

A fierce spike of rage shot through Carrion, but he grimly held onto his composure. Deep breath in – slowly let it out – consciously relax all the muscles…and he was able to slump in his chair, looking defeated. "You may be right." He glanced away, as though embarrassed, and used the opportunity to catch the tarrie-cat's eye. It was time for stage one.

"Well, let's just see where we are in five days. Do try the cognitive restructuring a little at a time. If it doesn't help right now, it surely will in the future. A faster strategy might be using humor!"

Carrion stared. Friendly grinned brightly. "How," Gorgossium's Prince began slowly, "will _humor_ help?"

The therapist wagged a finger at him. "I don't mean your usual sarcasm, my dear Mister Carrion!"

"Sarcasm is the only mode of humor I _have_."

Friendly went on as though he hadn't spoken. "Don't give in to harsh, sarcastic humor – that's just another form of unhealthy anger expression. Using _silly_ humor can help defuse rage in a number of ways. For example, if you were to say…"

_**-.-.-.-**_

The kitten caught Snarl's signal and a frisson of excitement ran through him from nose to tailtip. This was it! Such careful planning – and Snarl was trusting him to do almost all of it! He wriggled with glee, then stopped and shook himself firmly. It was time to focus. Snarl was depending on him.

He leapt noiselessly from the counter and carefully opened one of the cupboard doors below (they'd practiced this). Yes, his stash was just as he'd left it. Moving with speed and stealth, the tarrie went back and forth from the cupboard to Leech's bag – each time depositing a hairball or little mass of blood, fur, and bone that had once been a meal. And a couple of fish skins, several fruit peels and bread crusts, a number of dead crickets, and – oh, _very_ carefully – shards of a glass which Snarl had secretly broken in the smallest room. All went without Leech noticing into the bag.

When the stash was gone, he closed the cupboard door. Leech was still chattering on obliviously and… Yes, there was Snarl's subtle nod. All was going to according to plan, and he would wait for the signal for stage two. He wriggled again, unable to help himself. Time to double-check the other supplies. There was no reason for them not to be in order, but Snarl had told him over and over that you could never be too sure.

He was still a little worried about the part with the fish, but Snarl's confidence in him outweighed his nerves.

This was going to be _brilliant_.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Carrion noted with mild relief the tarrie's completion of the first step. Friendly had gone on to try to convince him to develop a "happy place" with sunshine and rainbows and flowers and small fluffy animals, complete with hand-drawn pictures for reference. Carrion had insisted he could only think of the Gorgossian gallows and described the scene in detail. This had the dual effects of easing Carrion's disgust and irritation and disturbing the therapist.

"Let's move on," said Friendly hurriedly. "You can, er, work on that, too. Let's try… Ah, my dear Mister Carrion, do you perhaps have a drink to offer? Water would be fine."

"Certainly," Carrion replied with a morose sigh, rising to his feet as though it were one of the most difficult things he'd ever done. The remaining glass was on the counter next to the sink. He picked it up and bent to open the cupboard door, the one next to the kitten's collection of disgusting things. He opened a bottle there, poured some into the glass, and straightened.

"Here," he said dully, setting it in front of Friendly and slumping back into his chair. He happened to catch the tarrie's eye and for a split second they exchanged a look of pure, malicious glee.

"Ah, thank you!" Friendly was saying. He lifted the glass to his lips – and suddenly choked and sputtered, dropping the glass as he spat out its contents (thankfully onto the floor). "_Oh!_ Oh, _blergh!_ Mister Carrion, what–" Here he descended into more coughing and sputtering, and jumped up to stick his head in the sink and try to wash his mouth out. "Oh, _ugh_!" he said when he finally resurfaced, flopping limply back in his chair. "Mister Carrion, I've never tasted anything so thoroughly awful in my life! I'm sorry, I know it's hardly friendly of me as your guest to criticize, but what in the name of the Hereafter was that?"

Carrion blinked. "I'm – not sure. Things don't seem to have a taste for me anymore." _Oh, Commexo Carpet Cleaner,_ he thought affectionately. _I knew I'd find a use for it someday. _It was hardly his fault if That Idiot was stupid enough to accept a drink from the Lord of Midnight – especially one that was pale orange and fizzed slightly.

"Oh dear." Friendly looked rather appalled. He floundered for a moment, then apparently decided to ignore that. "I'm afraid I've spilled that whatever-it-is all over your kitchen."

"It's no trouble," Carrion managed to say as he heaved himself to his feet again. He picked up the glass (unbroken, unfortunately, but oh well) and filled it with water, tossing said water onto the main puddle of Commexo Carpet Cleaner. He flicked a glance at the kitten, who nodded acknowledgment, and sat down again. "There. I'll – I'll clean it properly later."

"I really am terribly sorry–"

"It's no trouble," Carrion repeated. "Please, doctor, may we go on with my therapy?" (He imagined the cleaning fluid tasted a lot like those words. He was very proud of himself for not gagging on them.)

"Of course, of course, my dear Mister Carrion." Friendly seemed to be regaining both his cheer and composure. He extracted several sheets of paper from the disarray and slid them across the table. "Let's have a look at this list."

"'Walk outside and look at the sky,'" Carrion read.

Friendly smiled widely. "Yes! Breathe deeply, realize how insignificant your troubles are compared to that wide open sky, and let its beauty soothe you!"

Carrion stared at him. "Doctor. I am trapped in a set of four rooms."

"That Idiot blinked at him, uncomprehending, and then slowly realization dawned. "Oh. Oh, yes, I see." He paused, clearly trying to think of a positive spin on this. After a moment or two, the smile returned. "Let's continue!"

"'Get some paper and start writing,'" read Carrion dutifully.

Friendly actually clapped. "You see, Mister Carrion? You're already using that method! Keep writing your feelings down. Pour them onto the page! Poetry, drawing, journaling – all things you've done, all of which are very helpful. Write down your anger, your depression… It's perfectly all right to tear it up afterward, maybe even beneficial."

Carrion, who'd been staring first at Friendly's paper and then at his own crumpled ones, looked up with a small, tremulous smile. "I… Thank you, doctor. I think that's something I can do. I had no idea it was helpful – I thought it was just, well, stupid."

"I thought you might," said Friendly with a knowing nod. His voice oozed sympathy. "Your troubled childhood has taught you that expressing your feelings is foolish, even wrong."

Unbidden, he heard again a dead woman's voice, felt the cold, sharp touch of a needle against his lips, and stiffened. His hands clenched the edge of the table with sudden fury – at Friendly, at himself, at his cursed grandmother – and then the sensation of warm fur against his legs helped to firmly shove aside the ghost and the phantom pain.

"–know it's difficult to overcome the ideas and habits ingrained in us as children but–"

He shut out That Idiot's voice and let a hand slip off the table to dangle past the chair. Almost immediately a furry head was pressed into his hand, and he allowed himself to stroke the cat while he regained his calm. _There will time to castigate myself for this foolishness later. The therapist must be dealt with._ A light tug on his ear sent the tarrie reluctantly back to his station.

"–making wonderful progress!" Friendly finished with a grin.

"Thank you, doctor," Carrion murmured, managing to bring back the tiny smile.

"To get even more out of your writing, you should try focusing on things you're grateful for. Looking for the positives, remember!" Friendly winked, and gestured encouragingly at the paper.

"'Imagine you are the person you are mad at.'" Carrion let some of his distaste for this suggestion slip into his voice.

"Look at the situation from their viewpoint. How do you look to them? Is that how you want to look? Decide who and how you want to be and act as if you were that already," Friendly told him. "You don't have to be angry to be respected. You don't have to live up to your image!"

"If I were Finnegan Hob," Carrion reflected, "I would kill myself." He offered a slightly predatory smile at Friendly's wide eyes. "But I'm _not_ Finnegan Hob, am I? Look, doctor – I've just found something to be grateful for."

"Wonderful!" Friendly chirped, clearly deciding to focus on that sign of progress and ignore the fact Carrion had pretty much missed the point of the exercise. "Look at how many strategies you're finding useful! Let's learn about some more!"

"'Imagine you are at the funeral of the person you are mad at,'" Carrion read, and the smile turned into a distinct smirk. Now there was a technique he could actually use! Two feminine faces hovered at the edge of his mind's eye, but he easily waved them away by conjuring an image of Hob at his best – deceased. "Doctor Friendly, I rather like this one."

Friendly visibly swallowed. "Are you, er, wondering what you would say? What you would miss about that person if he or she were gone?"

Carrion gave him an innocent look while inwardly he cackled. "Oh, I'm thinking of what I'd say…"

"Right then," said the therapist, still looking a touch suspicious. "Do continue."

"'Remember a time in your childhood–" _Oh dear Midnight._ "–when you were afraid, hurt, or angry."**  
**

"Perfect!" Friendly nearly jumped out of his seat in his excitement. "Oh Mister Carrion, this is possibly the best exercise for you! Close your eyes and pick a memory, go on! Close them, close them!"

Reluctantly, Carrion did so, if only to avoid the sight of That Idiot flapping his hands with eagerness. Grimly, he vowed not to let any such memories surface.

"Now," he heard Friendly say, "in your imagination, embrace that child, saying 'It's okay. I'm here. You didn't do anything wrong. You're a good kid. I love you just like you are. I'm not going to leave you.' Then take your child self out of the situation to a safe place where he can relax, heal or even play!"

It took a great deal of effort not to burst into laughter (almost as relieved as it was amused, but he'd never admit that). On a whim, Carrion mentally put himself on one of Gorgossium's rocky shores, standing next to a ten-or-so year old prince whose bearing and expression made him look almost twice that age.

"_Why hello there, Young Christopher!" said Carrion. "I'm here to give you a hug and tell you everything's going to be fine."_

"_Touch me and die," said Young Christopher._

"_Well said, Young Christopher. Well said."_

Carrion smirked and opened his eyes. "I must say, doctor, that does make me feel better."

Friendly squirmed in his chair with joy. "Oh, I knew it would! Keep going back to different memories and comforting the child you were! It will at times be very difficult and emotional, I know, but –"

Firmly tuning Friendly out even as he appeared attentive, Carrion noted the tarrie-cat's unwavering attention. One of his hands was resting on the tabletop, and he tapped his first two fingers twice. It was the sort of brief, absentminded gesture that usually went unnoticed and unremarked upon, but the tarrie knew it for what it really was.

Carrion kept his eyes on Friendly. No matter how tempted he was to watch the young tarrie and make sure it didn't run into any problems, he couldn't risk drawing any attention to it. This first bit was one of the most difficult. Oh, they'd practiced a lot, but the kitten still missed two or three times out of ten…

Suddenly there was a flash of brick red fur behind That Idiot's head. Excellent! The cat was perched precariously on the back of the therapist's chair, three small, cold, dead smatterlings gripped by their tails in its jaws. The tarrie gave Carrion a triumphant look, leaned perilously forward…

…and dropped the fish down Friendly's collar.

Friendly jerked and yelped in surprise, squirming vigorously as he tried to dislodge the cold, slightly slimy things sliding down his back. The cat, long gone, came dashing back. Carrion couldn't see it under the table, but suddenly it was darting away again and Friendly leaped out of his chair with a shriek.

He hopped on one leg, flailing his arms and shaking the other leg violently, and almost immediately slipped on the large puddle of water and Commexo Carpet Cleaner. He tried and failed to grab the table for support, and fell with an almighty crash as he kicked his chair into the counter. Carrion stood up for a better view, his expression one of confused concern. "Whatever is the matter, doctor?"

Friendly responded only with a series of incoherent yelps as he writhed on the floor, rather like a person on fire or perhaps covered in biting ants. (_Biting ants,_ thought Carrion almost dreamily. _Yes, I'll have to remember that. Too bad we didn't have any. Dead fish and live rodents will have to suffice_.)

A sudden shower of cat litter exploded from the base of the wall nearest Friendly, quickly mixing with the liquids to form sticky clumps which clung to the man's clothes and hair. Friendly didn't appear to notice, too preoccupied with the tiny scrabbling claws of the two shrew-like rodents trying desperately to find their way out of his green plaid pants.

When at last they did, not a minute after the tarrie had released them, they fled to the darkness and relative safety of the cupboard – but not before a particularly irritated one bit That Idiot's ankle. Friendly collapsed in the mix of water, carpet cleaner, cat litter, and a handful of other disgusting things (similar to the new contents of his bag), shivering pathetically.

Carrion folded his arms, tilting his head as though trying to decide what to do. The cat obediently readied himself for the final, crowning insult and injury.

A deep, rumbling growl caused Friendly to weakly lift his head. He saw a tarrie-cat crouching at the edge of the counter, eyes glowing with an almost demonic light. He whimpered. With a ferocious, screeching battle-cry the tarrie-cat launched off the counter, landing on Friendly with claws extended even as the therapist tried to scuttle away. Friendly screamed like a little girl and the tarrie became a howling whirlwind of claws, fangs, and fur.

Carrion scowled down at the pair of them. If he could only time this next part right… "Doctor, stop struggling," he lectured. "You're only scaring That Thing. Thing, you really must leave Doctor Friendly alone. This is hardly appropriate behavior and you're supposed to be setting a good example for me."

The door burst open and what seemed like a horde of people (but was probably only six or seven) streamed into the hall, all speaking loudly at the same time and offering such helpful advice as "Get that cat off him!" and "What the Nefernow is going on?"

_Perfect_. As though he hadn't even noticed their arrival, Carrion heaved a put-upon sigh, stepped forward (carefully skirting most of the mess), and gingerly extracted the tarrie-cat.

Silence reigned at the sight of the Prince of Gorgossium with a kitten in his arms. Even more shocking was that the previously crazed kitten endured this quite calmly, except for a venomous glare at Friendly.

Carrion stroked his head lightly. "Really, cat," he admonished. "One would think _you_ were the one who needed anger management. You ought to apologize to the good doctor."

The kitten's grumble made it perfectly clear what he thought of that idea.

"Would someone please be so kind as to explain what's going on!" Candy finally burst out. She said "someone" but her glare was directed at Carrion. For once, it was not necessarily because she believed him to be the guilty party; it was more that Friendly looked incapable of answering.

Carrion shrugged, his shoulders hunching defensively. It appeared that, having finally realized the others' presence in the room, he had lost his momentary burst of confidence and was shrinking a little back into the listless figure of the past five days. "I don't know," he said warily. "Doctor Friendly was in the middle of explaining another anger management technique to me when he suddenly jumped out of his chair. I don't know why. He slipped on some spilled water and fell, yelling. I was trying to figure out what was wrong when the cat attacked him."

As Candy tried to decide how much of this to believe, Jimothi stalked forward looking very stern. He reached for the tarrie-kitten, who shrank back against Carrion with a soft noise of protest. Jimothi glanced at Carrion, clearly surprised, and Carrion held out the tarrie with a scowl. This time when Jimothi went to pick him up he merely sighed, resigning himself to the blistering lecture that was sure to follow.

Candy's stare shifted back and forth from the Lord of Midnight to the therapist (who was curled into the fetal position, trembling and whimpering), obviously at a loss as far as what to do in this situation. Carrion stared back silently. Looking thoroughly depressed with an audience, not trying even half-heartedly for a façade of his old arrogant manner, would almost certainly make her suspicious.

"Okay." Candy said finally, running a hand through her hair. "Doctor Cerra is with a patient right now, Doctor Friendly, but we have our own first-aid kits and we can help, um, patch you up." Friendly remained motionless but for the occasional shiver. "Um, if you'll just come with me…" Still no response. She exchanged looks with Malingo and Geneva, who shook their heads – no suggestions. Jimothi was still talking to the kitten – no help there. Slowly she looked back at Carrion.

His eyes widened as he tensed. His entire body said "no _way_."

She raised her eyebrows – he's _your_ therapist.

Carrion _almost_ glared at her. Then his shoulders slumped slightly and he muttered something irritable under his breath as he stepped forward and crouched next to Friendly. He hadn't expected an opportunity like this. He would have to play it very carefully.

"Doctor Friendly," he said quietly.

The therapist whimpered again, but this time it seemed to have an inquiring note to it.

"Doctor Friendly, the cat is gone. Jimothi has him. He can't attack you again. If you get up, Miss Quackenbush will get you medical attention." He paused again, eyeing the therapist's prone form. The trembling had ceased. Carrion rolled his eyes. "You're safe now, doctor. I – I need you to recover. I think that I've made a lot of progress today, with your help but I –" He stopped abruptly. That Idiot had uncurled enough to look up at him with wide, beseeching eyes.

"Truly?"

"Yes, Doctor Friendly. So I need you to let Miss Quackenbush tend to your injuries, all right?"

"I – I think I can stand," Friendly whispered pathetically.

Carrion rolled his eyes again as he straightened. Even if That Idiot were a competent therapist, Carrion would feel nothing but contempt for him based solely on his response to the attack.

"Mister Carrion?"

Carrion glanced down at the frail, pleading voice to see That Idiot holding up his hand with a piteous expression. Carrion steeled himself. He was the Lord and Master of the Abarat's darkest hour. He could do this.

He _had_ to do this.

He reached down, grasped Friendly's hand, and hauled him to his feet. Before letting go, he said quietly, "I believe that after today, you may call me Christopher."

It was part of the plan, of course. Pretend to become a good patient, cause complete, traumatizing chaos through the tarrie, rescue him from it, and for the piece de resistance, grant him the honor and perceived closeness of using Carrion's first name. Friendly would be as loyal to him as a dog after that, and his final report to The Girl would be exactly what Carrion wanted.

It was a brilliant plan.

It also had some unfortunate side effects.

Friendly stared at Carrion for a long moment in sheer disbelief. Then he burst into loud, wailing sobs and flung his arms around Carrion's waist.

The look of sheer panic Carrion shot to Candy was instinctive and completely genuine. Unfortunately, she looked like she couldn't decide whether to gape or giggle. She managed to pull herself together, though, and signaled two of the guards to help her. With one guard on each of Friendly's arms, the three of them were able to extricate Carrion from the embrace. Friendly transferred his grip to the guard on his left, still bawling. The guard sent Candy an aggrieved look, but nonetheless he and his partner began to maneuver Friendly out of the kitchen.

"Wait, doctor," said Carrion, forcefully ignoring his disgust for a few moments longer. "You've forgotten your bag."

Friendly looked up and, after a few last gasping sobs, was down to sniffling as the guards obligingly helped him back to the table. He slowly shuffled his papers together, sniffed again, and seemed to remember something. _Probably a handkerchief,_ Carrion thought with an internal smirk as Friendly set the papers down. Then he reached deep into the bag…

…and jerked away so hard he almost fell again, squalling as though something had bitten him.

Carrion felt a bone-deep sense of satisfaction as Friendly collapsed in a mess of tears, but then the therapist flung himself onto Carrion a second time. His teeth grated audibly as the guards detached the man once again. He latched onto the guard on the left a second time, so the other collected the bag and papers, and together they half-dragged, half-carried Friendly from the rooms.

**_-.-.-.-_**

Argud scowled darkly as he walked down the corridor with a wet, bloody, sobbing therapist clinging to him. When he had volunteered to help Candy Quackenbush and her closest allies guard one of the Abarat's most dangerous criminals, he had _not_ signed up for this. He could hear Darug sniggering helplessly behind him. "You could gimme a hand, y'know."

"Aw, don't be silly - he likes you best!" Unable to contain himself anymore, Darug burst into outright guffaws.

Argud hauled Friendly onward grimly. Oh, he would find a way to make his brother regret that...

**_-.-.-.-_**

Carrion shuddered convulsively. Shower. _Now._ He had water, cat litter, Commexo Carpet Cleaner, and That Idiot's _bodily fluids_ all over his front. Then he felt a warm hand on his shoulder which helped to erase the lingering sensation of Friendly's arms clutching at him. But who…? He turned slightly to look just as Candy let her hand drop back to her side, and he tensed in wary surprise. But she was smiling.

"Well, I'm glad you could get him up. I'm sure you want to, uh, get cleaned up so we'll talk about this" – she gestured at the total mess that had once been a perfectly nice kitchen floor – "later. I'll send you some soap and towels."

"And disinfectant," Carrion blurted before he could stop himself.

Candy looked at the floor again, grimaced, and said, "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.." She glanced over at Jimothi and, seeing he was done lecturing the kitten, headed out the door. Her three friends and the remaining guard followed her.

Blessed silence followed, broken only by the soft click of the lock.

In the few moments that the mirrors were likely to be still abandoned due to the chaos, Carrion allowed himself a deeply self-satisfied smirk. It was reflected, he realized, on the face of the tarrie-kitten, who swaggered over to him with such a smug air that Carrion found himself amused against his will.

"Well, well, well. I see someone is rather proud of himself."

The cat sat at Carrion's feet, throwing his chest out in clear agreement.

"Yes, well, don't let it swell your head. I told you that you would do well, didn't I? And when is Gorgossium's prince ever wrong?"

The cat purred loudly and got up to rub against Carrion's leg.

"Don't get too excited. We still have this absolute disaster to take care of – yes, I said we! I have cleaned up after you far too many times already, cat, and if you want to help with the fun parts you have to help with the clean-up. Now go find those two rodents and get them back in the cage. Or eat them, I don't care. Either way I don' want them ending up in my bed. I'm going to get out of these filthy rags so don't wait for me. And for Midnight's sake, don't lick your paws if you have to step in the water! Carpet cleaner is mixed with all of it, and I don't care what it says on the bottle – that stuff is as toxic as my grandmother."

_**-.-.-.-**_

The tarrie purred to himself as he strolled through the kitchen, nudging all the little gross bits into one pile so that Snarl could dispose of them easily. He couldn't help replaying the attack on Leech over and over again in his mind. It had been so brilliant!

He had noiselessly tipped over one of his dishes, full of water and some of that awful-smelling cleaning stuff, to make the puddle on the floor even bigger. And after Snarl's next signal, he'd gathered the little fishes. He'd leapt to the back of Leech's chair, landing perfectly, neither falling off nor overshooting his mark. He'd dropped the fishes down Leech's collar, _dived _off the chair, _raced _over to pull the two shrew-mice-prey-things out of their cage (difficult, especially since they were both alive, but he'd practiced that too and he was a _Hunter_), and_ dashed_ back to Leech to let them go – right up the leg of Leech's pants! Oh how he'd yelped!

And _then_ he, brilliant tarrie that he was, had pounced right onto the edge of his litter tray, which was sitting on top of his water dish. Oh, Snarl had made him practice that a hundred hundred times and the cat had gotten quite sick of it, but the sight of Leech being showered with litter while not a speck of it touched his fur and the pan fell harmlessly to one side… Oh, that sight had made the hours of practice (and multiple whacks from the falling pan) absolutely worth it. He still thought that they shouldn't have used clean litter, but Snarl had told him – well, snarled at him, actually – that he didn't want "hazardous biological waste" all over the floor. The cat had added some of the scraps that might have gone into Leech's bag anyway.

_Then,_ his very favorite part: the epic leap from the counter, landing on Leech and tearing him to shreds!

Best. Day. _Ever._

Of course, Jimothi had been _very_ unhappy. He paused a moment in his work, tail drooping guiltily. He didn't _like_ lying to Jimothi, or getting in trouble. But Snarl had told him that if Jimothi knew the plot was Snarl's idea, the whole plot would be ruined and Snarl would be trapped in these rooms forever – and so would the kitten. Well, the kitten didn't want Snarl to be trapped. He wanted Snarl to be free, to be allowed to go back to his home. He wanted… He wanted Snarl to take him home with him. He wanted to see this Midnight island and help Snarl rebuild the towers that appeared in many of Snarl's pictures. Plus, he hated Leech.

Jimothi had told him today, after the scolding was over, to just wait a few more days and try to behave – especially not to attack anyone like that again. Jimothi would take him away soon and the kitten wouldn't have to put up with that bad-tempered, uncaring Christopher Carrion anymore.

But that bad-tempered man _wasn't_ just Christopher Carrion, he was the kitten's Snarl! And he _did_ care! And the kitten _wanted_ to stay with him! But he wasn't sure how to explain that to Jimothi, who didn't _know_ Snarl, and so he'd just agreed to be good.

He shook himself sternly. Enough. He would worry about that when the time came. Right now, he had prey to stalk before the water stopped running in the smallest room. Hmm… All the excitement had made him pretty hungry. Snarl's second suggestion was sounding more and more appealing.

He started to pad toward the cupboard and grimaced – ugh. Wet paws. He might slip on the floor when he pounced and_ that _would be embarrassing. He ducked his head to start cleaning his forepaw. Oh, _yuck!_ Yuck _yuck!_ …Oh, right. Cleaning stuff. Well, what Snarl didn't know wouldn't get the cat in trouble.

He dropped back into his hunting crouch, the best moments of the day already replaying themselves again in his head.

_**-.-.-.-**_

Christopher Carrion sprawled in his armchair that evening, eyes closed and head lolling to one side. Somehow, keeping up the act had been harder these past few hours than it had been for the last few days. It was probably the temptation to let success – and he did,_ finally_, count this day as a success – equal relaxation. It was more important that he stay focused now than ever before. He had to predict what they would consider believable "rehabilitated" (or nearly rehabilitated) behavior from him. Cand- his jailers _had_ to believe him.

"_Everything is _not _going to be fine, Young Christopher," said Carrion contemplatively as he stared out over the Izabella._

"_I know," said Young Christopher._

"_Your dear grandmother will make your life thoroughly miserable."_

"_That's nothing new."_

"_Your lifelong plot of bringing Absolute Midnight to the islands will be foiled."_

"_Not too surprising."_

"_You will fail utterly in love, to your undying pain and humiliation." He paused, and added grudgingly, "Twice."_

_Young Christopher shot him a disgruntled look. "No need to rub it in."_

_Silence fell but for the quiet sound of the waves lapping at the shore. Eventually Carrion spoke again._

"_You know, it won't be entirely awful," he reflected. "You get to torture a lot of people. Strike fear into the hearts and minds of every sentient being in the Abarat. Kill your grandmother."_

"_That does sound pretty good," Young Christopher admitted._

_Then Carrion felt a familiar weight on his foot – not on the shore, but in his rooms – and sighed. "Of course, you will end up spending possibly the last days of your life locked in a set of four rooms with an insane beast."_

_Young Christopher glanced over at him, then down at his feet. He finally seemed as young as he really was when he said quietly, a little embarrassed to admit such a weakness, "Well, I've always wanted a pet…"_

Carrion opened his eyes to glower at the ceiling. "I'm so glad I've grown out of that idiocy."

A mew came from the vicinity of his feet. He rolled his eyes and sat up, leaning forward to look down at the cat, who was probably twice as heavy now as he had been the first time he'd sat on Carrion's foot. In fact, he was big enough now that he could really only fit his hindquarters; his forepaws had to stay on the floor.

"Yes?"

The cat tilted his head and patted the arm of the chair with a paw.

"What, the couch isn't good enough for you anymore? … Oh, very well," he muttered, giving in with bad grace. "Make yourself comfortable. I suppose you've earned it."

Gleefully the tarrie hopped up, curling into a happy ball on the arm of the chair.

"Don't think you're going to make a habit of this," Carrion grumbled as he reached down to pick up his book.

The tarrie closed his eyes and purred, perfectly content.

_**-.-.-.-**_

_And thus I would consider today a complete success. I would even go so far as to say it couldn't have gone better. Well, That Idiot clinging to me like a leech was truly one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life but I will endure._

_The cat is a better servant than Mendelson Shape or Otto Houlihan ever were, although whether that's a compliment to the cat or an insult to the men I'm not sure. I find it ironic that he was put here to torture me and yet has become my greatest – well, my only – ally._

_My only worry now is whether I will be able to accurately predict and execute the behaviors they want to see to prove that I am truly "rehabilitated." Simply depression was easy enough, but now there are many possible actions to choose from… I am the Prince of Darkness. I will be able to fool them._

…_Actually, two worries: I hope we haven't traumatized Friendly so severely that he won't be able to oversee my final session and give a favorable report. I never thought I would want him to be here, but I simply don't have the time to manipulate another therapist into working for me rather than against me. …Hm. But perhaps I'll find a way for a nightmare or ten to visit when him when I'm free, finish the job then…_

_No. Not when I'm free. Not until _dear_ Finny has had his grief counseling. Oh, that thought will bring me pleasant dreams tonight…!_


End file.
